We Meet Again
by BlvdofWritingDreams23
Summary: 160 years have passed since the American rebellion. For 160 years Alfred and Arthur have studiously avoided confronting their past together, but with World War II taking its toll and Britain in desperate need of assistance, they don't have the option of staying separated. What follows is a story of heartbreak and loss, of family and love, of forgiveness, and of redemption.
1. Once Again

**Once Again**

 **JULY 1941**

Hardly anything made Alfred Jones nervous. He was man of intuition and courage. He couldn't afford to be anxious in the face of conflict; that made his people, soldier and civilian alike, anxious, and they needed a figure of hope while the nation healed from the Depression and battled with overseas morals. Alfred had always been that figure, standing proudly alongside the Stars & Stripes and the Statue of Liberty as a withstanding symbol of freedom.

But in those few moments he waited outside the Oval Office, he wasn't sure when the last time he had been so nervous was.

Wait—the signing of the Treaty of Paris, 1783. That's right.

Roosevelt had sent for him, claiming he had some news to share with Alfred. The possibilities were limitless, but one stuck out in his mind as the one to fear the most.

Had the President finally declared war?

The very prospect of joining another Great War within living existence of another sent a shudder down his spine, but he put on his most charming smile as the door opened to one of the Secret Servicemen, stepping inside.

"Thank you."

The serviceman nodded almost imperceptibly, shutting the door before resuming his still position, leaving Alfred to address the man seated behind a desk in the back of the circular room, absorbed in papers and letters from all corners of the country.

"Mr. President."

The thirty-second President of the United States looked up, saw Alfred, and grinned cheekily.

"Good morning, Mr. America. Please, sit down." He gestured with an open palm towards one of the two plush seats in front of his desk. Alfred trekked around the Presidential Seal on the floor and sat hesitantly in the proffered seat, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers.

Roosevelt took a minute—an _achingly_ long minute—to arrange the papers on his desk before clasping his hands together in front of him, staring at Alfred through small, tired eyes.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked, although Alfred received the impression that he already knew the answer.

With the panic of horrible news crawling into his throat, Alfred managed to say, "No, but when do any of us these days?" He attempted to lighten his comment with a smile, but the affect was lost on Roosevelt. Clearing his throat, he added, "Er—what was the news you had—for me—sir…?"

"Right, that," said Roosevelt, as though just remembering, and pulled from one of the two stacks on his desk a neatly folded letter, which he handed to Alfred. "Prime Minister Churchill and I have arranged to meet in Newfoundland on August ninth. It's all a great big secret, and I would prefer to keep it that way. Even my wife isn't aware of this little escapade. She thinks I'm going on a fishing trip in Maine."

"Oh," said Alfred, staring at the telegram from Winston Churchill. As per his norm, the writing was full of passion and flow that Alfred had never been able to muster properly. Even so, this was news indeed. It was the next big step to forming a relationship with Britain—and, by extension, coming into the war.

"I assume the press is the primary reason you're keeping this quiet?" he inquired, sliding the paper across the desk.

"My critics, more specifically. I would prefer not to give them another reason to pick me apart." Roosevelt replaced the letter and fixed Alfred with a firm look. "I would feel much safer if you accompanied me."

Alfred nearly let out a sigh of relief. It wasn't terrible news—it wasn't even bad news—but it would have an effect, he knew that much. Still, it was just a trip, and Churchill wasn't unbearable; on the contrary, Alfred found him to be an incredibly insightful and entertaining guest. Not to mention that a trip to Canada would give him an opportunity to spend some time with his brother.

"You can count me in, sir," said Alfred, beaming as he rose from the chair. "Was that all?"

"Prime Minister Churchill is bringing England's personification."

The smile froze on Alfred's face.

"P – pardon?" But he had already heard it. It was when Roosevelt repeated his words that they became real, and Alfred couldn't do anything but stare for several moments. Finally, when he found his voice, he said, "Are—are you sure you need me there, then? England's a hell of a lot smarter than me, and—"

"America," said the President, stern faced. Above him, the portrait of George Washington glowered at Alfred, too.

He shut his mouth, slowly dropping back into the seat. His knees popped up and down without his realizing.

"I understand you two have a history together—" Roosevelt began.

"And it didn't end well," Alfred blurted, indicating the portrait of America's first president.

"It didn't," Roosevelt agreed, "but we have enemies that would seek to attack us. Should we enter this war, we would be creating the second worldwide war in the twentieth century. Should we enter it—" He paused, making sure Alfred's eyes were fixed on his before continuing, "it is _necessary_ for you to cooperate with Britain. It's time to put those bitter feelings aside. We can't afford to have them interfere with your insight on battle preparations. You're smarter than you think, Mr. America, and a hell of a good military man, if all the things I've heard are true."

Feeling ashamed, Alfred bowed his head, stopped his jiggling knee.

"You don't have to speak to him, but Churchill and I both expect you to respect each other. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," Alfred muttered, picking at a hangnail on his thumb. The bitter part of him imagined breaking alliances with England, as he had over 160 years ago, but that was a childish thought. It was 160 years ago. He had grown and matured since then.

He could do this.

His confidence returned, Alfred lifted his head, met Roosevelt's waiting gaze, and smiled.

"When do we leave?"

* * *

"Good morning, sir. I have this morning's paper for you," said Arthur brightly, although he felt anything but. Last night's bombings had been particularly painful, and he had a nasty feeling that when he resurfaced to ground level, he would find more than a few bases and national monuments obliterated.

"Cheers," said Britain's Prime Minister as Arthur handed him the paper. "Clementine prepared a spot of tea."

"Lord knows I need it." As though to prove his point, Arthur grimaced as he lowered himself into the chair beside Churchill's desk inside the makeshift office. The tea in front of him steeped invitingly, and Arthur only just managed to avoid singeing his tongue by taking a very tiny sip.

"Any news?" he asked, setting down the cup with a _clink_ that echoed in the tunnel.

"I haven't received any reports from above yet, although I plan to inspect the damage myself when they give the clear," Churchill grunted. "And there's the meeting. We're leaving today."

"Right," Arthur confirmed. "In Newfoundland, with President Roosevelt."

"And his personification," Churchill added lowly.

The cup froze halfway to Arthur's lips.

Slowly, he replaced the cup onto its saucer, knowing full well how carefully Churchill was watching him. He didn't know the full history between him and the boy he'd christened and raised, but he knew that they hadn't spoken since 1781, after Alfred had snuck into Arthur's camp outside New York and refuted any further relation to him. Those words rang as clearly in his head now as they had 160 years ago. _Your blood doesn't run through my veins._

Once he recollected himself, he managed to spit out, "Are you sure you absolutely need me on this trip? I could stay here and keep an eye on things."

" 'Things' is a vague word. What is it exactly that you would do while I am gone?" Churchill prodded, giving him a steely look over the rims of his reading glasses.

"Oh, you know, sign reforms, military authorizations and—and…"

"Sulk?" Churchill offered.

Arthur looked away.

"Britain, we're in the middle of a bloody _war_. Stiff upper lip," said Churchill firmly, unconsciously reminding Arthur of the countless times he had told Alfred that. "We need you at this meeting."

"Why, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Reinforcement, as well as insight. This is the first time I'll have met President Roosevelt."

"But you're quite capable of handling yourself. You've made that fairly obvious—"

"As I said, _reinforcement,"_ he said simply, and took a sip from his teacup.

Arthur looked at the ground, a sense of both dread and fear overwhelming him. The thought of meeting Alfred again made him tingle with nerves. There were so many questions they had left unanswered at the end of his rebellion, so many bitter feelings left over. Until that day, Arthur had never imagined that Alfred was capable of fury—anger, yes, but never so much—but he was wrong, and the thought of experiencing the boy's wrath again terrified Arthur.

It terrified him so much he couldn't breathe.

"I need air," he muttered, and before Churchill could stop him, he darted from the office, through the tunnels, past sleeping and waking men, women, and children, avoiding each one of their eyes until he reached the doors leading to ground level.

Shoving his shoulder against it, Arthur pushed against the heavy doors with all his might, ignoring the shouts of the guards and the aches in his bones telling him not to, until he opened it just enough to slip through—and he was in open air.

He took deep, gulping breaths despite its ashen tinge, shutting his eyes as he took breath in, opening them as he released it. Thrice he did this before looking up from the glass-strewn ground.

And was met with a horrifying sight.

There were no fires. There were only shells and blackened craters. Arthur took several tentative steps forward, rubble crunching underneath his shoes. Surveying the scene around him, he spotted Westminster Abbey around the corner, a chunk missing out of its side, and several men were crowded around the Thames, pulling out a floating shell. The buildings across the street were largely untouched, but facing it—

Arthur's mouth fell open. The Houses of Parliament were spared (how Jerry could have missed it, he had no idea), but the Treasury next door was in pieces—windows were shattered, chunks of the building clattering to the ground. Workmen clambered all over the place, barking orders at one another to do this and that. Arthur's eyes filled with angry tears, and he was reminded of the reason why he came out here.

What would Alfred think if he saw him like this, so pale and sickly-looking? Would he laugh? How much had he changed since they last met?

Arthur dropped to his knees, wiping his eyes against his sleeve. He couldn't go on like this for much longer. It was getting to the point where America _must_ enter the war. Sure, he had the Soviet Union on his side now, but Stalin was as much of a tyrant as Hitler—even Ivan knew that—and America had essentially chosen a side when President Roosevelt agreed to loan a financially-broke Britain weapons and old aircraft carriers simply because they could. Even in depression, America was still more powerful than any of them.

America was the only option.

A bell chimed in agreement.

Arthur's head whipped upward. A bell was _chiming._ The clock tower still stood. Both the men on the docks and on the Treasury paused in their toils, listening to Big Ben sing.

Something snapped in Arthur, swelling him with a pride and satisfaction he hadn't felt in decades.

"There'll always be an England," he murmured, singing with the chimes.

America _was_ the only option, but Britain wasn't lost. Her _spirit_ wasn't lost, nor broken. It was right here, ablaze within the souls of each and every Briton.

And Arthur needed as much of it as he could get if he wanted to survive this.

* * *

 **AUGUST 1941**

The HMS _Prince of Wales_ gleamed in the Canadian sun, the soft seas reflected against her plates. Alfred and his president had arrived second on the USS _Augusta_ , and now the time had come for the two leaders to meet. Roosevelt didn't look nervous, even leaning on his son Elliott's arm; Alfred tried mimicking him, although he kept tugging on his tight shirt collar and wiping the wrinkles from his sleeves.

After several minutes of this, Roosevelt sighed.

Alfred stopped in the middle of shaking out the creases in his trousers. "Sorry, sir."

"Don't be. I just hope you don't plan to court Mr. Britain." He matched Alfred's appalled expression with a wry grin. On Alfred's other side, his brother chuckled.

"Shut up," Alfred grumbled.

"Sorry," said Matthieu Williams, who had been summoned (along with Roosevelt's two boys) to keep the two other personifications in line. "Roosevelt just has a good sense of humor."

"And an excellent memory…"

A horn sounded from somewhere in the distance, and the British ship's landing dock dropped slowly onto the American ship, allowing the small gathering on the other side access to the _Augusta_ 's deck.

The first man Alfred saw was Churchill, dressed in navy blue and looking ecstatic to meet Roosevelt. The second and so on were several aides and men of other occupation, a couple of them Americans returning from diplomatic business overseas, and filing in from the back—

Alfred turned away, catching his brother's eye and conveying a sudden sense of panic. "I can't do this," he whispered under his breath. He had told himself again and again that he could in the days leading up to this, but now that the moment was here, he thought he would have a seizure before he could say _hello_. It was a little kept secret that Arthur could hold grudges for long periods of time—his relationship with France was a perfect example.

"Yes, you can," Matthieu replied, his eyes following a figure approaching the ship, undoubtedly Arthur. "And he's headed this way, so stiff upper lip."

Before Alfred could remark on how many times Arthur had told him that, a familiar voice cut through the air.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. President."

 _Dammit,_ Alfred thought. Matthieu flashed him a smile, silently indicating that he should too. "Don't embarrass your president," he muttered through clenched teeth.

"Mr. America?" Roosevelt said, with an underlying tone of inquiry.

Alfred shot Matthew a look, but his brother merely shrugged, moving away to greet the Prime Minister. He hated how _right_ Matthieu could be sometimes. It was infuriating, but he wasn't making this meeting any easier by refusing to look. It was childish, and he knew it. So he took a deep, stabilizing breath, and turned back around with his most charming smile plastered on his face.

Arthur looked worse than he expected. He stood as far away from Alfred as he could get without being rude to the President, eyes averted and posture rigid. Still, the glimpses that Alfred received of him displayed an ill-looking pallor and hollow cheeks. His fair hair was as unruly as ever, sticking up at odd angles and mussing in the salty breeze.

He looked up only when Matthieu greeted him, lips curling into a small, humorless smile. His eyes flicked once over Matthieu's shoulder, finding Alfred in a heartbeat.

Alfred looked away, taking the Prime Minister's pudgy hand in his own. "An honor, sir."

"Not a misfortune, I would hope," said Churchill cheekily. "Make sure Mr. President reads the letter I gave him, will you?"

Letter? What letter? Alfred masked his confusion, but his gaze slipped briefly to Roosevelt's hand. There, between his fingers, rested an envelope with a royal seal.

Now that was just ironic.

"Of course, sir." Alfred smiled.

"Jolly good, boy," Churchill growled, with a friendly pat on his shoulder.

From there, the leaders slipped into conversation, leaving the personifications to their own devices. After making sure his brother was all right with Arthur (the smile on his face was plenty of confirmation), Alfred slipped away from the group, heading for the bow. He braced his arms on the railing, stretching the muscles and ligaments, fingers curling around the cool metal. His meeting Arthur again hadn't gone at all like he expected, but it went better than he thought it would. Arthur hadn't said a word, but he hadn't ignored him—same as Alfred.

Still, it was only the beginning. There was plenty of time for things to go wrong.

He sighed, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers. He wondered if Arthur was pleased to see him wearing a suit after Alfred had utterly refused to wear them as a colony. Of course, they were as uncomfortable today as they had been in the eighteenth century, but he wore them often. He had to.

As Arthur had said a long, long time ago, dressing appropriately was only polite to the guests you were meeting.

* * *

Arthur kept sneaking surreptitious glances over Matthieu's shoulder, watching Alfred wander over to the bow. He knew he was being rude in doing so while Matthieu was talking—about what, he wasn't paying enough attention to know—but he couldn't help it.

Alfred had grown up far more than he expected.

He supposed it made sense, given all the western expansion and petty wars Arthur had read in the papers—not to mention his exceedingly enormous economy—but it still amazed him that he had grown up _so much._

"Why don't you talk to him?" said Matthieu abruptly, drawing his attention back.

"You know very well why I can't," Arthur snapped.

Matthieu chuckled. "Just making sure I had at least some of your attention."

Arthur harrumphed, snuck another glance at Alfred. "When did he get glasses?"

"Annexation of Texas, eighteen forty-five," said Matthieu matter-of-factly. "From what he told me, he just woke up blind one day." Glancing over his shoulder, he stared at Alfred's back for a moment before turning around. "Believe it or not, it's better that you meet him now than thirty years ago."

Arthur frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

"He wasn't always like this. Before the Depression, he was a little…well, arrogant."

"Isn't he always?" Arthur blurted, earning a chastising look.

"I'm talking about a careless arrogance. The kind that doesn't matter how bad his economy or government is. The kind that only cares about himself and doesn't take responsibility for his actions. For a long time after his Civil War, that's how he was. I don't know if it was his people doing it to him, or the boom in industry or, hell, even the imperialistic kick he had back in the nineties, but be glad you weren't meeting him then. Ivan's told you about the Alaska Exchange, hasn't he?"

"We don't talk much at all, actually," said Arthur, admittedly a little dumbfounded. If he thought about it, he supposed the praise he received for his evolutionary military tactics could have gotten to his head, but it certainly wouldn't have been a result of the Civil War. Not if Arthur's murky, pain- and blood-ridden memories of his own had anything to say for it.

Matthieu gave a little snort that he attempted to hide behind a cough, fighting a smile. "Let's just say Al got a little cheeky and said something he shouldn't have. The fight was hilarious to watch, but Al lost miserably. If you look closely, there's a scar on his nose from where Ivan punched him and broke it."

"I'm sure that was a blow to his confidence," Arthur muttered.

"Definitely, but my point is that he's different now. The Depression humbled him."

"And what does that have to do with me?" Arthur sighed.

"He won't say it, but I think he just wants your acceptance." Matthieu's expression turned somber, studying. Unable to resist, Arthur glanced at the bow. Alfred hadn't moved from the spot, not even to check on his president. He was no longer the lanky boy who fidgeted uncomfortably in breeches and came home covered in mud and filth from the woods. He had filled out, amassing the same strength and power that Arthur had known a long, long time ago—before the empire, and before the war. Undoubtedly, he understood loss and hardship the same way he did. He had made mistakes and learned from them, repeated them at times. Hated that they had happened at all.

For Alfred, who was steadily growing to the status of an empire, where mistakes were made to a scale of far greater effect, it was only the beginning.

How could Arthur not warn him?

He looked back at Matthieu, who waited patiently for a response, and felt something harden within him. Empathy. After all the pain Alfred had given him before, during, and after the rebellion, a part of him wanted Alfred to suffer. It didn't matter that he had already. Arthur wanted to _know_ about it.

"Don't expect me to talk to him. This is purely a business meeting. Nothing more." And before Matthieu could formulate a response, he stormed off to the other side of the ship. Away from the leaders, away from the alliance forming between them, away from Matthieu and Alfred. Away from forgiveness.

* * *

Footnotes:

1\. Roosevelt actually did keep this meeting secret from his wife. Eleanor had a tendency to tell the press about what he was up to, and Franklin didn't always appreciate that, especially when the country was so ardently neutral at this time.

2\. The two actually met before the Atlantic Charter, once, at a dinner in Gray's Inn (one of the four "Inns of Court", the professional associations of barristers and judges) in London, 1918. Churchill didn't remember it, but Roosevelt did, and it came up during the Newfoundland visit—much to Churchill's embarrassment.

3\. In December 1940, England ran out of funds for the war, so Roosevelt passed the Lend-Lease to help them out.

4\. Matthieu's explanation of when Alfred got glasses refers to the theory that Alfred's glasses represent Texas. Frankly, I've got nothing better, and I can see how annexing Texas would make him either far-sighted or near-sighted—or both—so I'm using it.

5\. "Pain- and blood-riddled memories of his own" refers to England's Civil War in the 17th century.

 **Disclaimer - IMPORTANT: this story is rated T so that it may remain on the browser page, but this is a war story, and there will be sections of it that are or verge upon an M rating, particularly for violence and gore. I will do my best to provide warnings where they are necessary.**


	2. Onward Christian Soldiers

**Onward Christian Soldiers**

 _"No Captain can do very wrong if he places his Ship alongside that of an Enemy."_

 _\- Admiral Lord Nelson (1758 - 1805)_

 **9 AUGUST 1941**

For a Navy cruiser, the _Augusta_ 's dining room was about what one would expect, if not given to more effort in cleanliness knowing what high company it would be holding: a long table had been prepared with a white cloth, the scars of which Alfred could feel under his fingers once he sat, and the cruiser's best dishware had been laid out, the china shining dully in the electric lights. Everything from the portraits on the walls to the floor itself swayed a little with the ship's pitches in the restless bay waters, a fact which not only pained Roosevelt as he "walked" to the chair at the head of the table but which made Alfred feel faintly nauseated. He'd tried being on the water before, but it simply wasn't his element. Looking around, he wasn't the only one—even Matthieu looked a little unsettled. On the other hand, Churchill and his delegation had been on the sea for two weeks already; if any of them still suffered sea sickness, it didn't show.

Only Arthur, when Alfred let his gaze wander over to him, looked remotely comfortable—which was saying something, given his sunken, hooded eyes and sallow, ghostly skin. He was in _his_ element, Alfred remembered. Once upon a time, the seas bowed to him.

In a way, he supposed they still did—only, not as strong. Britain's empire was fading—had been since the Great War—and his bone-thin hands showed it, trembling slightly as they cut into the main course.

Like most of the table's occupants, he had changed before dinner. The tweed that had kept him warm in the chill wind on the deck was gone, replaced with a black dinner jacket and waistcoat, soft cotton shirt and polished shoes. All of it looked new, but Alfred knew better. He wouldn't parade around in new clothes while his people barely survived on rations; he simply took care of the things he had, made them last longer than an ordinary person would.

Briefly, he wondered how much smoke he would smell on them, if he'd been sitting close enough. Arthur's clothes always smelled of smoke when he was little—cannon smoke and tobacco. He did what he could to remove the smell—starching, cologne—but it never quite faded.

As if drawn by his gaze, Arthur's lifted. Alfred quickly bowed his, picking at the pheasant on his plate and listening to the conversation playing out across the table ends—Roosevelt leading, Churchill inserting.

"There are some beautiful Norwegian spruces in Hyde Park," the President was saying, with an almost nostalgic smile—another mask, probably. Next to him, Elliot nodded in agreement—always the stickler, that one—while Franklin Jr. simply sat and watched, his arms crossed over his chest, his plate a vast china plain of carnage. "I'm considering putting some of them up for market in the winter—as Christmas trees, you know. They would need to be reasonably priced, but it might be worth the trouble—"

"Yes, absolutely!" Churchill boomed, small eyes blazing like a child's from sheer excitement. "To think, New Yorkers with spruces from the President's own childhood home! That's the spirit people need—!"

"Or a commercial opportunity," Alfred muttered, and hissed when Matthieu kicked him in the shin under the table. "What?" he hissed.

Matthieu flashed him a stern _you-know-what_ , gone in an instant as he laughed politely with the others in response to Churchill's dry humor.

Alfred heaved a sigh through his nose. _Fine._

From Norwegian spruces, the conversation steered down darker avenues, taking a trip to Gray's Inn—Roosevelt looked annoyed when Churchill forgot about their true first meeting—and Japan before dessert was over. When that course was cleared, it took its darkest sojourn yet. Churchill shared a meaningful look with Arthur and H.V. Morton, one of the writers tasked with recording this meeting's events, and opened his mouth.

The speech that followed was as passionate as anyone could expect from the Lion. He told them the tale of the war he knew raging on the other side of the Atlantic even as he spoke, warned that it wasn't something a few doughboys could fight to its conclusion with a little mud and a few trenches. It was mechanized, mobile, and scientific, and Britain was desperate for aid. He spun stories of rigging that sang with the rumble of thunder and sails that unfurled in whipping winds and stormy seas, plowing onward, ever onward, because there was no place else to go.

He asked that if America would provide the means necessary, lend them some more destroyers and bombers and funds, Churchill would take care of the rest. He would bring the war to the Axis, threaten the Huns with the same horrors they had handed Britain. Contain them and break their spirit.

His speech reminded Alfred forcefully of war, though not just any. _His_ war. It may have been due to the fact that he sat in the room with his former adversary, but he found himself recalling those blood-soaked battlefields too easily, those stained knees of breeches and the dirt-smeared faces in the snow and rain, growling for justice, representation. Then, acceptance…

Churchill thumped his fist on the table, and Alfred jumped, snapping out of it. Matthieu shot him a puzzled look. He ignored it.

They were just words. Ordinary words, detailing the vain desires of two men who wanted glory. He'd heard it all before.

Yet they were powerful, and later Alfred would recall them again with a certain amount of dread and appreciation, but what surprised him at that moment was the fact that Roosevelt, rather than commanding the conversation, listened intently to Churchill's requests, and when he finished, he grinned, as if the Prime Minister hadn't effectively asked him to officially join the war effort.

"I see," he said. He spoke quietly, yet his voice rang in the swaying silence. "I suppose an Anglo-American declaration of principles _is_ in order, then." His grin broadened into a genuine smile. "We have much to discuss, don't we?"

Winston beamed. "Indeed we do, Franklin."

Others were not so amused. Arthur muttered something for Churchill's ears only, but its effect was marked: the Prime Minister's face fell like a disappointed puppy's, and for a moment Alfred hated Arthur for everything he did to make this meeting more difficult than it had to be.

 _Just let it go,_ he wanted to say. _It's me you're mad at, not him,_ but then Arthur's head turned, finally caught him staring and glowered, and the words fled in fear.

* * *

"Groveling now, are we?"

Arthur had barely been able to speak last night for his fury at the man in front of him, poised in front of the mirror determining whether the suit he wore was suitable enough for the morning hymnal service. He'd known asking for more aid, if not an outright declaration of war, was the agenda, but the way he asked had resurfaced memories Arthur had rather left buried. Memories that interfered easily with the polite demeanor he had managed thus far towards Alfred.

Now, when the Prime Minister's smiling face stuttered in confusion, he couldn't bring himself to be empathetic. "Are we that desperate? You made us look like a shabby once-was, Winston." Arthur didn't know why he was asking. He knew what the answer was. Had known for some time.

Churchill took a moment to gather himself, shrugging as he straightened his collar. "I don't like to think of it, but there is the possibility we will be after the war."

Arthur's jaw fell slightly. It was the answer he expected, but to be put so bluntly shocked him. Had he heard correctly from the world's best _dreamer?_ "We—we've—we're not a once-was!"

Churchill laughed. "Chin up, old boy! I meant no such thing as losing the empire—my spirit is Britain's spirit, and it will never be broken while I still have something to say about it—but you can't reject the power of the United States. We've had this chat, yes?"

Arthur tightened his jaw and looked away, no less relieved. "Yes." His own words from last month rang through his head: _America is the only option._ Arthur supposed he should be grateful that Roosevelt was choosing to help them instead of—heaven forbid—Hitler, but then he thought of Alfred and felt nothing but bitterness.

Unsurprisingly, someone had something to say about that, too. _He won't say it, but I think he just wants your acceptance._

In hell, perhaps. If he wanted his blessing, he was going to suffer for it. _That_ was a promise.

Churchill sighed and turned, his bowtie straight and his suit as wrinkle-free as it could manage after a fortnight on a ship. "Recall _Lady Hamilton_? Lord Nelson's duty, ultimately, was to his country—even as a man of peace, as we are. If Franklin's is the same—and I don't doubt he perceives it so—he will do what is just for the Democracies around the world."

Arthur bit back a scoff, matching Churchill's jolly grin with a simple scowl. That film was smothered in as much propaganda as it was romance, but it reflected the Prime Minister's education, the effects of his father's cold and unforgiving ineptitude as a parent. Of course he loved it, saw a future in the past it presented.

And when Churchill latched himself onto a dream, it was near-impossible to break him from it without shattering something else inside. There was no point in arguing.

Uncrossing his arms, Arthur smoothed his hands over his suit and moved to the door. "If you want to take orders from an arrogant buffoon, be my guest, but if you'll excuse me, I have rounds to make."

* * *

Distantly, Alfred heard the church service singing "Onward, Christian Soldiers" from the quarterdeck. All of the two ships' top officers could be heard there, leaving Alfred with the lower ranks to keep watch on the _Prince of Wales_ —not a particularly eventful job, but better than being constantly on high alert in the middle of the choir.

 _Onward, Christian Soldiers,  
_ _Marching as to war,  
_ _With the cross of Jesus  
_ _Going on before!_

Tuning it out, Alfred looked out across the churning waters. The sun tried to offer warmth through a bank of grey clouds, but the briny wind off the bay washed it away. Seasickness was easier to manage out on the deck. The water did all the heaving for him, although imagining how cold it was didn't help. Hiking up the collar of his coat, Alfred breathed into his stiff hands.

A door opened behind him, and Matthieu stepped out, looking relieved to be in the open. He flashed Alfred a grin. "Radar's not picking up anything."

Reason to be relieved, indeed. "Good." There hadn't been any reports of U-Boats in the area, but they were out there, and they had no reason not to come into the St. Lawrence. America may be neutral, but Canada was a British Dominion. By default, Matt had been at war for nearly two years already. However, the Germans would be positively brainless to risk making a formal enemy out of the lower half, and they weren't, if Alfred's history with them held any merit.

Then again, Hitler wasn't German, and he was the one calling the shots. Who knew what was coming next?

"Why aren't you at service?" Alfred asked. Maybe conversation would warm him up a little.

Joining him at the deck's edge, Matthieu glanced sidelong at him. "It's Protestant, not Catholic."

Alfred snorted. "That's never stopped you before."

He shrugged, resting his elbows on the railing. "It's not really my delegation. Why aren't you there?"

Was his brother really asking him that? "You know why."

"Oh, right, because the First Amendment needs more protection."

"Matt," Alfred groaned. He was right—it _was_ the biggest reason he wasn't at the service—but there were other origins he didn't particularly want to delve into right that moment.

He chuckled. "I'm kidding, but Arthur's not there, either, if that makes you feel better."

Alfred flashed him an annoyed glance, but it did make him feel better. Whether it was because Arthur assumed he would be there was another story, but not one that concerned him much. He didn't care what Arthur thought. He didn't care if Arthur thought he was still a child, or immature; he knew differently.

For instance, children don't lie to themselves. They're too young.

"Tell me something," he said suddenly, earning a raised brow from Matthieu.

"What?"

"Anything." Alfred didn't need to say about who. If Matthieu was the designated mediator, he was going to make himself resourceful.

He took his time answering, scanning through the options. Alfred watched them flick across his face: Did he want to share something sentimental, openly advocating, easy fact, or something he already knew?

 _Anything but that one._ Please _, anything but that._ Alfred's image of Arthur felt dishearteningly incomplete without 160 years of contact to fill and adapt it, 160 years Matthieu had with him that he didn't. He didn't want something old; he was desperate for something new.

"He's…hardened over the years," revealed Matthieu finally, slowly. A glance at Alfred's rapt expression encouraged him, and a tiny grin rose on his lips as he added, "But he's more willing to listen. I think you taught him that."

Alfred flinched, but he told himself it was a good thing not everything that came from the Revolution hurt. There had to be one good thing that came to Arthur from this. He didn't have to spend excesses of money on him or his wars anymore—that was something.

Well, that came back to bite him when Napoleon sold Alfred the Louisiana territory to fund _his_ wars.

He bit back another groan. Matthieu was watching him carefully, so he plastered on a grin instead. "Bet that makes conferences easier, huh?"

His study didn't waver. In fact, it saw straight through. "A bit, though he still pushed me towards Confederation." Matthieu faced the water, though the touch of his eyes lingered, still watching. "Apparently, I became a liability one hundred years ago—the isolationist bubble and all that."

With all of his resources, that was surprising, but Matt had also been self-governing in the eighteen forties, like he'd been in the eighteenth century. If they were capable, and Britain was scarred from losing America, it made sense that Arthur would have pushed a semi-independence. Better to listen and negotiate before than after.

"Better than being a slave," Alfred muttered.

Matthieu hummed agreement, breathing into his hands and rubbing them along his arms. "Boy, I could use some hot cocoa. Think the _Augusta_ has any? All this cruiser has is tea—and _no_ sugar whatsoever."

Alfred cracked a smile. "Not in summer. Wait a few months, then you can give yourself more cavities."

He expected a shudder that recalled all the horrible dentistry his brother had undergone, but Matt simply deadpanned, "Coming from the guy who's called me, drunk, how many times?"

"I'd rather not know that number, myself."

They spun. Alfred's smile dropped; his fear almost exposed itself before he remembered to mask it.

Arthur glowered hard at them both, though the worst was saved for Alfred. He had the windblown, ruddy-faced air of having made rounds himself, attempting to look taller while still huddling inside his collar. Thank goodness Alfred had studied Roosevelt often enough to know what proper aloofness looked like. His, he thought, was almost as good as Arthur's—at least, until he caught a whiff of smoke above the brine, and then his throat went dry.

"You should be at the service," he snapped at Alfred.

Behind him, he felt Matthieu's huff of warm breath against his shoulder, and a flicker of the old resentment towards being ordered about ignited itself, but Alfred kept his tone calm and polite. "I'm not needed, and I'd rather stand guard."

"This isn't your ship," was all Arthur gave for reply. He didn't need to spell it out. Alfred knew what he meant.

He didn't have the _authority_ to be making rounds on British territory. Alfred gnashed his teeth, shoulders tensing. At the stern, guarded best against the winds, the church service—a friendly Anglo-American gathering—was chorusing again.

 _Eternal Father, strong to save,  
_ _Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,  
_ _Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep  
_ _Its own appointed limits keep…_

It grated on Alfred's nerves, and he found himself glowering back, his numb fingers tightening on the railing until it started to bend under his grip.

Arthur turned his head, listening for a moment, and then said to Matthieu, "Get up there, both of you. Service is nearly over." He about-faced and left without waiting for a response. Alfred watched him disappear onto the quarterdeck, an anger he hadn't felt in decades—over a century, at least—rearing its head. What the hell was his problem now? He'd been polite, if not stiff, over the past day whenever they had no choice of speaking to each other, but never openly rude.

It crossed Alfred's mind that there could have been another bombing, but Churchill would have told Roosevelt as a means of persuading him towards war, and there couldn't have been one today; it was too early in London.

Maybe the hymns were getting to him. They weren't finding peace in Alfred, either, but he'd heard worse.

Or maybe his gentleman's act was all for the leaders' benefit—and _only_ theirs.

"Al," Matthieu breathed, tapping his hand. Alfred released the railing, revealing the unnatural outward bend, the curved imprints of his fingers in the metal. That wouldn't be easy to fix—he was surprised it hadn't cracked in this cold—but he couldn't bring himself to be sorry.

Let Arthur see it, be reminded of him. Let it be one more mark he left on his soul.

"Al, come on."

He lifted his head to see Matthieu, expression grave and—he thought—sympathetic, waiting at the other end of the deck, by the curve that led to the stern. There was nothing for it. He'd be embarrassing Roosevelt if he wasn't there to greet him when the service finished, so he followed.

Arthur hovered at the back of the gathering, hands clasped behind his back, chin up and features impassive. Save for the slight stoop of exhaustion in his shoulders, no one would guess he wasn't truly absorbing the hymns.

Despite his irritation, Alfred mimicked him as Matthieu settled between them, bowing his head in prayer. It was what they had always done, back in the day, whenever someone in town asked why they never went to church, never celebrated Christ or the sacred rebirth of Easter.

Religion, put simply, had never been a strong part of Alfred's upbringing. His native beliefs, grounded in nature and the earth around him, were not supported by Christianity, and Arthur lost faith long before he adopted Alfred. Matthieu, who after 1763 had been raised by France, found his own path.

Alfred had no qualms about that, although he and Arthur's lack of enthusiasm made living in Boston difficult sometimes; they became the objects of suspicion among the townspeople, at least until Arthur reminded them that, salutary neglect or not, he was in charge.

In all that time, Alfred had asked only once why they didn't go to church.

"What do you believe in, Alfred?" had been Arthur's response.

That had stumped him. He'd thought long and hard, watched how people interacted in town for an entire day before he went back and answered, "I believe in treating people nicely and with respect."

Arthur had grinned crookedly and disappeared behind his month-overdue _Times_. "You don't need church to do that."

It was ironic, given how deeply religious their people were, but that was simply how they had lived, and it kept them close until the inevitable fallout. Soon after, the native beliefs he'd once known by heart and cherished faded from memory, too. These days, Alfred didn't engage because of the First Amendment. He believed he couldn't protect religious freedom equally if his own views were strung through his faith.

Yet, looking around the congregation of sailors, officers, writers and politicians, he couldn't deny the magic in the air—stronger than the immediate warmth between Roosevelt and Churchill, seated side-by-side on the quarterdeck, backed by their men and two flags waving in the wind: the Union Jack, and the Stars and Stripes. A union made possible from the same language, the same fundamental laws, the same ideals…driven by the same hope.

All this between their people, and their representatives could barely say more than a few harsh words to each other. Couldn't overcome their bitter pasts.

His gaze slid over Matthieu's head. Arthur's unreadable expression hadn't changed, but he sensed a bone-deep weariness inside it, a willingness to carry on only because he had to, not because he wanted to.

He had to have read the messages, the signs—about his empire, about what being in the war alone for thirteen months meant.

When Hitler got bored of the Soviets and resumed his bombardment of England, Arthur wouldn't last much longer on his own. He needed this union, and still he fought it—out of pride.

Alfred thought of the damage he'd done to the railing, what he wanted it to signify, and felt sick. Pride had pushed those thoughts.

He could try to be the bigger man, delude himself into thinking he wouldn't give himself to anger and comparisons of maturity, but all he really wanted, deep down, was acceptance and forgiveness.

Anger fading, Alfred gave in and bowed his head, praying to whoever was listening that he'd find the courage to be kind by the end of this meeting.

* * *

The British delegation returned to the _Augusta_ for dinner that evening. While Roosevelt and Churchill were at ease, calling each other by their first names, and the officers and aides joyful and relieved by their budding friendship, Alfred stayed tense. Luncheons were easier to bear than the dinners, perhaps because they came at the end of the day, and while Alfred's system read nineteen, Arthur's read one am. It made him crankier than usual, comprising a gritty sort of polite that did nothing to mask the shadows developing under his eyes.

So, rather than be the potential source of his wrath, Alfred tuned out the conversation. As a result, he almost missed the turning point.

"The Empire has rich resources all over the globe that you would find useful! The spices from our Crown Jewel, and the gems from the Good Hope Cape—the _ivory_ is absolutely gorgeous—the color of sea foam, brilliant—"

"What of the people?" Roosevelt interrupted Churchill, who frowned. "Are they pleased with colonialism?"

Alfred froze. Shared his trepidation with Matthieu. Several seats to their right, Arthur's fork paused on the plate.

 _Roosevelt, what are you doing?_ Alfred well hoped he knew after all the lectures the President gave him about cooperating with Britain. He'd be wise not to jeopardize it himself.

Churchill looked momentarily confused. "I should think so. There have been a few kerfuffles here and there—"

"That should be a sign," said Roosevelt dismissively, chewing a piece of lamb. Once he swallowed, he went on, ignoring the Prime Minister's astonishment, "Colonialism degrades the conditions of these countries, Winston. Decades of war and conflict have seen to that. Would it not be easier, once the war is over, for the Empire to move them towards self-determination?"

Alfred could have laughed if he wasn't so apprehensive of sending Arthur into a rage; everything from his ears to his neck was already red. Roosevelt been careful not to use the word "independence", but its replacement wasn't much of an improvement. It still betrayed the President's progressive, Wilsonian beliefs in ameliorating the people and lands that suffered under imperialism.

Worse still, the lecture wasn't over yet, and he had a light-hearted smile to tell it with. "I want you to promise me, Winston, that you will not be presiding over the liquidation of the British Empire, because it will come to that, and I would hate to see your legacy left in such a bad light with your people. Let someone else take care of that raucous business—"

The slamming of silverware on the table drowned out the rest of his monologue, followed by the napkin and the chair scraping on the wood as Arthur stood and bolted from the dining room. He didn't spare Roosevelt a single look, but he didn't have to. Leaving was a statement enough.

The door swung shut with a slam that rattled the walls, echoing in the silence. Slowly, the guests' heads returned to the table, looking to one another for an explanation.

"That was a bit brash," said Tommy Thompson, Churchill's naval aide-de-camp. "My apologies, Mr. President."

"Yes, it was," agreed Hap Arnold, the U.S. Army Air Force general on board for tactical advice. "Shall I have one of the sailors fetch him, Mr. President?"

"No, that won't be necessary," said Roosevelt, but his gaze wasn't on Arnold. It was on Alfred, who stared back, slow understanding creeping through his dark mood.

Roosevelt so rarely did anything without a purpose. He was a magnificent deceiver. Nine years with the man had given him close insight of his tactics—closer than perhaps he wanted.

Why should his choices of conversation be anything other than explicitly calculated?

Resigned, Alfred turned to Matt. Recognition flared quickly in his face, and he lowered his silverware. "Al, no— _no_ , Alfred!"

But his little brother didn't listen. He was gone before Matthieu had finished calling his name.

* * *

Arthur hadn't so much as taken a drag from his cigarette—one of the few he had left, thanks to the shortage at home—when an all-too-familiar voice bellowed from farther down the deck, "It wasn't my idea!"

He took his time responding, ascertaining that his expressions were carefully reigned in before he turned. "Wasn't it?"

Alfred paused—wisely, Arthur thought—several yards away, slightly harried and out of breath. He must have run straight from the south deck. "It was all Roosevelt. I had no idea he was going to bring up the state of your empire."

Arthur lifted one mocking eyebrow. His determination was admirable, but not enough. Nowhere near. "Certainly did a brilliant job of making it look like yours. Tell me, did you suggest the word 'self-determination'? God, you bloody Yanks love to make freedom look righteous. It's practically a religion here." Arthur forced himself to take another drag. He'd keep talking if he didn't, and there was only so much anger he could restrain before it boiled over. As it was, he was already close to his limit. Of _all_ the conversation topics when it came to the Empire, and the President chose its future—brilliant strategy, that was, but then, Arthur had quickly figured out that Roosevelt liked hearing himself talk, just as Churchill did. He anticipated the latter's stream when they returned to the _Prince of Wales_ , sitting patiently on the other side _._

That drag was the only one Arthur could take, however, before he had to put out the cig and replace it in the box. They needed to last as long as possible, and Alfred wasn't worth wasting an entire stick.

A grimace crossed the boy's face, gone in an instant. It didn't surprise Arthur—he even found bitter humor in it—but it showed him that he had learned _something_ after all these years. Thank goodness they weren't all a waste.

"I—" he started, then faltered, scanning Arthur's face. He tensed, jerked his chin up higher. If this was what he thought it was, he wasn't ready for this conversation. Wasn't sure when he would ever be.

Whatever Alfred saw in his face, it hardened him. His earnest naïveté dissipated behind an ancient personification's dominating presence, a bellowing request for respect that shouldn't need to be asked for. It had a powerful effect; Arthur straightened.

"I'm not trying to antagonize you, or your methods of operation over the past century. Please tell me that's not why you're peeved."

"I don't owe you anything," Arthur snapped. It was an immediate response, one that came once he saw the tension in Alfred's posture, watched his hands curl slowly into themselves. There was a maturity in his stance that Arthur had missed develop over the past 160 years, but when he met his eyes, they were still the same childishly blue conduits of emotion.

He was afraid of something.

"If you want my help, you do," he said stiffly, though not angrily. "You need cigs, don't you? You put that one back without smoking it fully. That means a shortage back home."

Arthur crossed his arms. Alfred was more observant than he used to be, too. Arthur would have to be careful from now on. "Is that so? Last I recall, it wasn't _you_ offering. Your bloody President's making all the shots."

"Who cares who offered? Do you want Hitler at your doorstep again, because my people—"

" _Your_ people," Arthur scoffed, gaze darting out to the bay. Night had fallen, and the stars struggled against the moon and the inky black for the chance to shine on the waves, though the electric lights on the two cruisers won in a landslide. No one bothered to black out the windows here, this far away from Europe, and their artificial white light glared on the water.

Such freedom to light, to be. Arthur missed that.

"Yes, mine," Alfred reiterated, firmly but softly. Arthur reluctantly drew his eyes back, waiting for the next petty excuse. "And they would be happy to let you drown. They don't want another war, but Roosevelt planned this for a reason—"

"Vain glory, I'm sure."

"No, it's not—" Alfred groaned a sigh, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. Arthur turned away. Under no circumstances did he want to see his face without those glasses. Once the initial shock faded, Arthur's sense of relief that he had them kept him from too many restless hours in the night. Memories still pushed themselves through—if he didn't expect that, he was optimistic, indeed—but those glasses alone separated the past from the present. Without them…

Arthur didn't like to think what other memories might crop up.

 _Your blood doesn't run through my veins._

He flinched, shoved the words from his head, and growled, "I warned Winston about this—about _you_ —and yet he went off and made the damn arrangements anyhow. And now we're all in this mess together, aren't we? An Anglo- _American_ declaration—what were they bloody thinking? All you Yanks want is material for your own benefit."

Arthur anticipated an immediate reaction, an immediate flare-up, but Alfred simply shoved his glasses back up his nose and said nothing.

His silence made Arthur angrier than he liked to admit, and something else was starting to creep under it—something Arthur didn't want to acknowledge. " _Fine,_ " he gritted. "Just leave, then. Go back to your dinner and your negotiations."

Alfred lifted his head. His expression was tumultuous, warring between sadness and shame. The fear was gone, and Arthur didn't want to know where it went. "Why?"

Arthur's eyes narrowed, but before he could snap an answer, footsteps joined them. Alfred turned and revealed Matthieu in the lamp light, his entrance even more discombobulated than his brother's.

He registered the harsh expression on Arthur's face and slowed to a stop, rounding on Alfred. "What did you do?"

Alfred straightened in shock. "Me? I'm just trying to talk. He's the one that's not—"

Matthieu held up a hand. "You know what, never mind. I don't want to know, just come back to the dining room. Arthur, you don't have to come back—"

"What?" Alfred flared up. "That's—"

"It doesn't matter whether or not it's fair, just shut up and listen to your brother," said Arthur harshly, rubbing his temples with one hand. It blinded him to Alfred's visual response, but that was quite all right. The beginnings of a headache were creeping through his skull, and he had no interest in continuing his conversation—if it could be called that. "Matthieu, would you mind escorting me back to the _Prince of Wales?_ I'd like to lie down, and I doubt Churchill will allow me to return alone."

Matthieu looked torn between empathy and loyalty. In the end, the latter won out—thank heavens. Arthur loathed pity.

With a glance at Alfred, he said, "Sure. Let me take Alfred back, and I'll come straight."

Arthur nodded, waved them off.

In low tones, Alfred fought Matthieu all the way down the deck. Arthur almost felt sorry for him, but he didn't look too bothered. He was used to Alfred's antics, the same way Arthur used to be. He'd known each one, known precisely when it would show itself. His fondest was when he'd still been young and unassimilated and hated soap. He would sneak off to the woods behind their home in Boston to bathe in the pond instead, only to return covered in mud from the banks.

His only response, when Arthur flew into a fit about the filth all over the floors and furniture, was to smile, as if it was all some lovely jest.

Pushing the memory away, Arthur reached into his coat for the box of cigarettes and relit the one he'd tried to salvage for later. His fingers shook has he turned the striking wheel on the lighter, and he nearly crushed the pad of his thumb between the lid when he closed it.

Despite not wanting to, he knew where that fear went.

He smoked until the terror subsided, until the cigarette was down to the nub.

* * *

Footnotes:

1) _Lady Hamilton_ is a movie starring Vivien Leigh ( _Gone with the Wind_ ) and Laurence Olivier ( _Hamlet_ ) about Lord Nelson's - an Admiral of the British Royal Navy - affair with a diplomat's wife during England's struggle with the Napoleonic Wars. It promotes the idea that "England expects every man to do his duty."—i.e. fight for his country.

2) I do not use the term "religious freedom" in the sense of allowing discrimination against groups of people whose state of being—whether ethnic-, gender-, or sexuality-related—defies concepts of various faiths. I mean it simply in the sense that the Constitution describes: the freedom to practice your faith (or lack thereof) without discrimination by another.

I'm almost certain this religious theme will be sensitive to some readers, so I am only going to say this: In the forties, religion was a substantial part of people's lives. Very few did not associate with a faith.

The church service described above _did_ happen aboard the HMS _Prince of Wales_ on 10 August 1941. Likewise, America, from the very beginning, has always been a deeply religious country. The Founding Fathers however, aware of the origins of the persecuted peoples who made the colonies their home, chose not to follow in European footsteps by establishing an official faith. In practice, this became something different, but that's a different argument for another time.

3) Finally, I apologize if this chapter sounded sappy when it came to the union talk. I was trying to evoke a need in Alfred to restore his aims, undirected by pride, but I think it sounds a little too much like Churchill. Ah, well. The way I look at it, in terms of attitudes: FDR = Arthur - they both wear masks, and Churchill = Alfred - hopeful and quixotic daydreamers.

 _Chapter Information Sources:  
_ 1) _Franklin and Winston: An Intimate Portrait of an Epic Friendship_ \- Jon Meacham  
Hymnal Source: Ibid, p. 115-16  
Also the primary source for the previous chapter.

2) _A Little History of Canada_ \- H.V. Nelles  
3) "All About History Book of the Victorians Second Edition" - Imagine Publishing

 _Quote source:_ Nelson's Trafalgar Memorandum - British Library website.


	3. Indictment

**Indictment**

" _Out of the night that covers me,  
_ _Black as the pit from pole to pole,  
_ _I thank whatever gods may be  
_ _For my unconquerable soul."_

\- William Ernest Henley, "Invictus"

 **SEPTEMBER 1941**

"Bloody hell! Can that man not make _any_ commitment?" Growling, Churchill tossed the _Times_ onto the table between he and Arthur in the Garden Rooms and collapsed into his chair. " 'Interchange of views, that's all.' What, does he want a bloody plea?"

With well-practiced impassiveness, Arthur looked up from his notes and slid the paper closer to read the headline: _ROOSEVELT SAYS NO TO WAR WITH GERMANY_ _Again,_ he added silently. _Once again._

"This is recent?" he asked, careful to keep his tone neutral. He hadn't apologized for his abrupt exit on the _Augusta_ last month—not even during the subsequent meetings that resulted in their Declaration of Principles, the Atlantic Charter. Roosevelt, in maintaining good humor, hadn't mentioned it, and from the grumpy tirade Churchill awarded Arthur's ears after dinner that night, the Prime Minister didn't expect an apology from him, either.

Which was fine—better, actually. Sucking up the American president was the last thing he was about to do. The Cabinet had dispersed after delivering updates from the beleaguered African war front, and in spite of his exhaustion, Churchill looked ready to hurl curses and words at the four walls. For his part, Arthur wouldn't have said no to a little brandy in his tea—and the butler could leave the bottle.

"Apparently it's old news in America," Churchill grumbled now, lighting a cigar. "Those words are from a press conference on the _sixteenth_ of August—the very _day_ after we left! What could that man be thinking, honestly? America is our best hope, he must understand that—and the whole Cabinet's upset, of course. You saw them—downtrodden and full of ill hopes, and that was merely Africa…"

Arthur nodded, only half-listening as he skimmed the headline article. " 'Three days after this press conference, the American President stated in a second chat with reporters that, as a result of his conversations with the Prime Minister, he better understands the fight Britain is putting up against fascism and will continue to put up until the crisis resolves itself.' " He looked up. "That doesn't sound like a man who is backing out, Winston."

"Then what?" Churchill growled, the smoking cigar between his lips, bent over a report he was preparing for the House of Commons.

Lifting an eyebrow, Arthur dropped the newspaper back on the table and leaned an elbow on the tabletop. "You haven't figured it out? It sounds like a man who's trying to keep an isolationist consensus at bay."

Churchill's head jerked up. Plucking the cigar from his mouth with thick fingers, he said lowly, "You think there will be war, then? With whom—Germany, or Japan? He'll declare it?" His eyes lit like a child who has found his lost dog, giving Arthur pause. After a year and four months, he should have known better than to raise Churchill's hopes unnecessarily, but he'd thought Roosevelt's intentions would have been obvious.

He opted for what was already known. "The Lend-Lease isn't made of empty promises. He's offering us more aid, and Roosevelt's agreed to take over Canada's job of escorting the North Atlantic convoys. From what I understand, they _are_ rebuilding their military industries should Japan or Germany decide to force them into war—with us," he added, thinking that Churchill's current state of mind could lead him to believe almost anything, including the idea that America might suddenly decide to join the Axis Powers instead.

Thankfully, that idea didn't seem to cross his mind. "But will _he_ declare war? The crisis with Japan is getting worse, yes?" Churchill's eyes scanned Arthur's face hungrily, begging for the answer he wanted to hear. A hope to cling to in these ill-fated times.

Arthur sympathized with it. Bombs hadn't fallen in months, but that didn't mean they weren't out there, waiting for the order to be deployed. Churchill's desperation was one he had seen before, in a much different time, and it was warranted. Loath as he was to admit it, not having America's full support was aggravating—for a number of reasons. Not having America's full loyalty meant he wasn't even _trying_ to…to… He didn't know what.

Instead, the Americans were oscillating. Running at a standstill within the confines of their pretty, untouched homes.

Irritating, as always, though it was a bit strange for a boy who'd always voiced exactly what he wanted.

Arthur shouldn't have been surprised by Roosevelt's actions. America was officially neutral, yes, and Roosevelt was incredibly well-versed in projecting that image, but the President had let on—several times, and they were well-hidden in the dramatic climate—that he wasn't entirely closed to war. The Lend-Lease and his flexibility with revisions were proof, and yet all of Arthur's instincts screamed this "backing out" was Alfred's doing.

It made sense, he supposed. The boy so rarely did what he was told without argument, after all, and it wasn't as if Arthur's tremulous state mattered to or affected him. He didn't stand to gain when the British coffers were all empty…

The words sounded equally penniless, even in his own head. Perhaps Alfred had been like that once, but everything about him spoke of a different, wiser man—no longer that stubborn boy with his head in the clouds.

 _He won't say it, but I think he just wants your acceptance._

Why, if he wanted that, would he be backing out from helping Britain?

Arthur broke contact with Churchill's waiting, near-desperate gaze, finding the _Times_ headline again. All of this was speculation, with little to no hard proof, and he was beginning to think the Cabinet meeting was at fault. Barely half an hour out and he was already falling into a spiral.

That had become the pattern of the weeks since their return: a meeting reminded them of all that was going wrong; Churchill, rather than assuming his dogged radio spirit, sat silent next to him after they left; and Arthur found himself falling…falling through his memories of all the times adversity faced him. Of all the times he triumphed.

And all the times he failed.

"I don't know, Winston," he said finally. "News and intelligence have suggested America is trying to establish a separate peace with Japan."

Churchill sighed. Flicking the ashes into the tray, he jabbed the cigar between his lips and grunted, "Well, perhaps that American journalist that's coming in—the _Washington Post_ , is it?—can shed some light on the situation." And that was that. He went back to his speech, papers shuffling in the silence.

 _Damn_ these depressing Cabinet meetings. Arthur resented the way they made Churchill look, too, like the aging man he truly was. Just a man, not the glorified figure his people needed.

Arthur remembered his term in the Great War as First Lord of the Admiralty. After the disaster of Gallipoli, Arthur had never been so relieved to see the back of him—similar to how he'd felt when George Washington departed from service in the militia and didn't return.

How small they had seemed then—unimportant and, well, in Arthur's head, disposable.

He hadn't allowed himself much time to think about his conversation with Alfred that night, following his exit. He didn't want to think through the intense fear he'd felt, didn't want to understand it, and yet…

 _If you want my help, you do._

Alfred claimed that Arthur owed him—what? Information? His cooperation? Perhaps a declaration of how he felt at that precise moment. Well, did he feel like declaring independence today? Or flashing all of his wealth?

Arthur gritted his teeth, hands balling into fists under his arms as he listened to Churchill work. No, he did not want to understand that fear. Regardless of whether or not he'd become a charity case, he had been in tight financial strains before. He could overcome this, too— _without_ America's help, if it came to it.

"Is Clementine still managing all right?" he asked, grasping at strings. Anything to take his mind off war.

"The bronchitis hasn't returned," Churchill replied, looking equally relieved for the change of subject. "She's tired still, but that treatment home is doing her no end of good."

Arthur nodded. That was good news, thank the gods. The last thing Winston needed was to grieve a deceased wife. He loved Clementine dearly; that loss would kill him more than this war ever would.

A rap echoed from the door. Upon Churchill's word, his butler entered on a habitual path, set a telegram before him with detached silence, and exited just as quietly.

Arthur watched him leave, admittedly admiring his skill; he could never muster such respectfulness or silence in the service of the gentry. The last century had only begun to show him how incredible it was that his own servant staff put up with his tirades and fits, but then again, loyalty in Britain could be won, easily, with enough money. So could silence.

"Lord Britain," said Churchill gruffly. Arthur's head spun from the door and paled upon seeing his face, the slack cigar. How much bad news could one man take in a day?

Apparently the Cabinet's updates weren't enough.

"Franklin's mother died this past Sunday."

* * *

Masks were Roosevelt's specialty, akin to a best friend and confidant. Today, his friend wore him more than he wore himself. Even simply sorting through his stamp collection seemed to take an effort of self-control. Eleanor was nowhere to be seen, but Alfred felt her close by, ready to come at a moment's notice.

"Sir?" Alfred tried, sitting across from him in an office at Hyde Park. Several minutes had passed in solemn silence, lapsed into from the end of a conversation on Congress's increasing reluctance to fulfill Roosevelt's provisions to the Lend-Lease. Alfred wanted to let Roosevelt grieve, let him study the first stamps he collected as a child—he knew, too well, how much it hurt to lose people he loved—but there were other discussions they needed to have—aid to the Chinese, the Conscription Bill, negotiations with Tokyo, among others—before Alfred left for Washington, and time wasn't doing either of them favors as it crept along the sky.

"Yes?" said Roosevelt languidly. He zeroed in on a stamp with his magnifier, and then abruptly changed course before Alfred could respond: "Do you know where this stamp came from, Mr. America?" Holding out the rectangular stamp stuck to his finger, he showed Alfred a purple-tinted picture of a woman in a full-skirted, dark dress with a white bonnet, seated in a chair with her hands folded on her lap. The Whistler Mother portrait.

The small writing beside it read: _In_ _Memory and in Honor of the Mothers of America._

Pressing his lips together, Alfred tried to recall where he'd seen it before. "Wasn't this the Mother's Day stamp from a few years ago? The one you helped design?"

Roosevelt hummed a confirmation, his mouth curling up only slightly as he turned through the pages. "May of nineteen thirty-four," he murmured, finding what he sought and placing the stamp carefully in line with the others of that year.

Alfred bit back a sigh. They were getting nowhere. Congress wasn't going to be happy, but Alfred certainly wasn't going to make demands of the executive chair or be cruel for their sake. "Sir, we don't have to continue this. I can make some informed decisions based on precedent and—"

"No," said Roosevelt with surprising sharpness. He didn't even lift his eyes from the book. "No, I don't want these decisions made on precedent."

"That's how we learn from mistakes, though," said Alfred casually, speculatively, drumming his pen on the notepad on his knee, "by looking at precedents." _Do I need to remind you that I've seen firsthand how history repeats itself?_ This was the _Second_ Great War, after all—not the first—and Alfred wasn't naïve enough to miss the similarities between Hitler's rise to power and his own means of establishment.

Nor was Roosevelt thickheaded enough to cast off the necessity of understanding the past—just prideful, and mourning.

"I'm aware," he said lightly.

This time, Alfred couldn't suppress his growing exasperation. "How about your cousin's precedent, then? He saw war himself."

Roosevelt glanced up, a dull twinkle in his eye. "In Cuba, with the Rough Riders—I remember. I was sixteen at the time of the Battle of San Juan." He tried for a grin but didn't quite manage it, gaze dropping back down to the stamps. "Theodore knew war, yes, but I'm not sure it was war quite like this. I loathe it, and I don't want to be in this one, but I fear we may have no choice, Mr. America. Even the people are beginning to realize that possibility."

"I know," said Alfred bluntly. He'd felt it these past few weeks as intelligence from Japan seeped through the classes and departments. As the situation developed, worsened, he'd felt the population's growing resignation. The acceptance that, regardless, they had to be prepared.

Alfred remembered Roosevelt in the Navy thirty years ago: he had been one of the few who were adamant about preparedness all along. He was glad to see that belief had stuck, that as they spoke quietly in the study's mid-afternoon light, armaments were being pieced together and sent out; the various industries and military complexes were building themselves up, shell by shell. Waiting and dreading for Roosevelt to wage them and all their might.

None of this, however—not even the attitudes, which Alfred was notoriously poor at shutting out—did anything to relieve him of the anxiety that seized him whenever he thought of going to war yet again. In that regard, he was in Roosevelt's boat: He hated war. His country had seen too many in its short life, and to be responsible for creating a second global conflict rather terrified him. How many would it take before the world had enough? Three, four? What would they become by then, if gas had already been used to kill millions and technology improved every day?

"When I went to France in '18—the same visit on which I met Winston at Gray's Inn, actually," Roosevelt went on, as if he hadn't heard Alfred, "there was a point when my staff and I were close enough to the German line to hear an artillery shell go over our heads. The French Admiral, of all people, ducked. I remember the fear on his face. It was so…pure." As he spoke, the magnifier dipped in his fingers, and his lined face took on something of a dazed, glassy-eyed expression. "On that trip, I saw countless trenches and men coughing out of their gassed lungs. Some were limping, or wounded. Others were dead in the mud. I saw cities, destroyed. I saw the agony of mothers, wives, and children—"

"Stop." Alfred wasn't exactly recoiling, but his spine and shoulders were pressed against the chair's wooden back and starting to ache from their stiff alignment. He knew what Roosevelt meant. He knew it better than he did, and he didn't need him to use his own memories to make him understand that the very worst form of life was becoming their only option. In fact, it made him angry that Roosevelt had.

He used his own propaganda tactics against the one person who had lived long enough to _be_ the wounded, the limping, the agonized by the dead in the mud.

Alfred hadn't been in Europe for the Great War, but he still remembered vividly the daze of his first battle on ravaged New England hills—the craters and bone-thumping _BOOM_ s the cannons made, the inhuman screams and wet _shick_ s of metal through human flesh.

Joseph Warren's loss had been a particular blow to his psyche. In the aftermath of Bunker Hill, all that had been left was an absence of calm. Then, months later, a mutilated body—the body of a doctor who decided that day to be a warrior. A mere boy even then, Alfred remembered crying well into the night, carried off to sleep by the blood and gore branded into his mind.

What would a man who had never fought on the front lines himself understand about that kind of agony and terror?

Perhaps Roosevelt saw the dangerous line he was crossing, because he tacked away from description, picking up the magnifier and another stamp to evaluate instead. "My point is, Mr. America, that I know what war is. Those moments have helped me understand that the war I thought I knew was actually quite merciless. There are veterans on my staff—there are even men of distinguished honor—but many of them are as ignorant as I once was. That is why the only precedent I can ask for in these decisions is yours."

Alfred's brow shot up, muscles relaxing minutely. That was the last thing he expected. "Mine?"

"Yours," he agreed, examining another stamp—this one with variegated blue stripes.

"But I—wait, what?" Alfred pushed through the surprise and gathered his thoughts into a coherent sentence. "I was in Mexico during the Great War, sir."

"So I've been told," Roosevelt concurred, flipping to the year 1916 and adhering the stamp to the creamy paper.

Alfred frowned. Who in the department was old enough or hadn't been replaced by new Administrations?

Roosevelt looked up briefly and grinned. "History, Mr. America, and I took the liberty of reading your file several years ago."

"Ah." Shifting, Alfred set the notepad and pen on the table and dropped his elbows in their place on his knees, clasping his hands as he leaned forward. "Well, what d'you want to know?"

At that, Roosevelt assumed a business-like posture as well, setting down the magnifier with a firm _clink_ and folding his hands on the desk before him. "How did you move on?"

He quirked an eyebrow. "I don't know what you mean."

"How did you move on from losing your mother?"

Alfred had expected a question about war—not his personal life—and it took him a dumb minute to process what he was asking. Roosevelt hadn't asked whether Alfred had actually lost his mother. He hadn't asked whether or not Alfred was born from a womb or the earth itself.

That was the mortal thing about humans: they never guessed that their existence differed from the personifications'.

Leaning back in the chair, Alfred ran a hand over his face, then through his hair. As it so happened, on this account humans were correct: the personifications were born from conception, something decided by a power they had no knowledge of other than it came from somewhere beyond yet worked around them all the time.

How could explain that in a way that made mortal sense?

"She represented the Massachuset people," he began, struggling for those long-forgotten memories, "She was…not the _sachem_ , but she held herself as one. The chiefs of all the bands in our tribe usually would come to her for advice. When she wasn't that, she did what every other woman did—cooked, gathered wild herbs, fished… Women were actually the main producers of food in most of the northeastern tribes, did you know that?" Roosevelt shook his head minutely, and Alfred grinned. "Yeah. They were incredibly resourceful… My mother made a lot of tools for people in our band. I vaguely remember watching her weave baskets and carve tips for spears, and I felt…calm. Safe, I think. She used to ask my brother and I every morning if we dreamed, and what we dreamed about…" He petered off, staring at the desk edge without seeing. It was more like a cliff edge, where the waves hit the rocks with the force of a hard slap, made them slick and glistening. Alfred had slipped a dozen times on those rocks, and his mother had always been there to rescue him. Every time.

"What happened?" Roosevelt prompted. His voice had lost its authoritative confidence, given in to a rare moment of wistful curiosity.

Afterward, when she was gone, Alfred hadn't dared go back, not even with Matt. Neither of them could have survived if one tried to save the other when he inevitably lost his footing.

Alfred blinked out of his reverie. "The Mohawks, or Kahniakehake. They, um…" He shut his eyes, reframed his focus until it was suitably detached from emotion. Despite the time that had passed between 1609 and now, he still remembered that day with nothing but blank fear—could still hear his brother's ragged breath in his ear as he clutched Alfred to his chest, almost drowning out the terrified screams. He'd been blind in the dark, clutching the chipped stone arrowhead strung around his neck so tightly the tip pierced his palm. It was those sensations, above everything else, that stuck with him to this day. In many ways, it had been his first trauma. "There was a raid. Later—much later, about a hundred years ago—I found out that Champlain had aided the Huron in attacks on the confederacy, and the Mohawks were only trying to compensate for their lost numbers, but…" He stopped, took a deep breath. Telling this story was harder than he thought it would be; he could string the words in his head without issue. It was putting them to his voice that was exhausting him.

Roosevelt didn't know Alfred's history, and no amount of files or history books could supplement his own memories, but the President respected it, at least, no matter its gruesomeness. He waited patiently.

"She was one of the kidnapped," he wrenched out, finally, his head hung and gaze on his nails as he picked at them. "She told Matt to take me into the woods and hide, and when we came back, they told us she was gone." He shrugged, spent. "We never saw her again, and the only consolation I have is that the Mohawks wouldn't have killed her. They would have assimilated her instead."

Roosevelt didn't speak for some time. It was infrequent that the President was quiet and chose to listen, but he had done it twice in the span of a month, and both times the silence leftover was deafening. The air felt close and stuffy, like a fire had been lit in a windowless room. But when Alfred lifted his head to the fireplace in the back corner, away from the windows, it was dark, the dustbin empty, how it would be for at least a month more.

"What happened then?" said Roosevelt mutely.

Alfred hesitated. "We stayed with our clan until they all died out…about twenty-six years later. And then we went to live with…" He wasn't sure what to call him—on his own or in the presence of the President. Roosevelt had done it all for him these past weeks.

He obliged him once more. "Mr. Britain."

The corner of Alfred's mouth twitched. "I think it might be Lord Britain, actually. Churchill called him that in Newfoundland."

Roosevelt thought a moment. "Yes, he did." He flashed a wan smile, his stamps forgotten. "What of your father, Mr. America?"

At that, Alfred snorted, cracking a sardonic grin. "Never knew the bastard. He left before I was born, and Matt was too young to remember anything."

"I see," Roosevelt replied, in the same slow tone of voice he had used on Churchill the first night, after his speech. Alfred's gaze narrowed. He didn't like whatever scheme or idea it insinuated. "Were you ever able to find one?"

Alfred bit back a mirthless chuckle. Should've seen that one coming. "I think you know the answer to that, sir."

He grinned cheekily, a bit of the old spark flaring in his eyes. Good. Alfred had managed to distract him for a while, even if it was at his own expense. None of it changed reality, or the decisions that still needed to be made, but Alfred was relieved for even a glimpse of the Roosevelt he'd known for a decade.

He grinned back, and after a little more lighthearted banter Alfred left with the promise to make the decisions based on his judgment alone.

* * *

 **DECEMBER 1941**

"Do you think there will be war with Japan?"

"Yes."

The voices—one a growling British, the other a respectful American—floated up from the country manor's front entrance as a motorcar trundled away—the first he had heard in months that wasn't attached to a tank or artillery unit. Africa had been a nightmare, indeed, but the quiet dread of those two voices was almost worse.

"…shall declare war on them within the hour," the Briton said doggedly.

A faint smile could be heard in the American's reply. "I understand, Prime Minister…" Something else was mumbled that he couldn't hear, so he shut the book and pressed closer to the cracked window. Pale sunlight struggled through the gray clouds, illuminating the fibers in his coat but offering no warmth. The cold wind whistling through and rattling the centuries-old panes made the conversation difficult to hear, but he caught enough.

"…wait a tic—if they…war on us…you declare war on them?"

A pause. "I can't answer that. Only Congress has the right to declare war—"

He turned away and slammed the book on the side table, disgusted.

 _Of course it is._ Just another way to back out. _Lucky you, America._

Down below, there was no response to the contrary.

* * *

Arthur's eyes were dead.

At least, they looked that way when he found them in the lav's smeared mirror. Dull, emeralds past their prime. He sighed and finished removing his dinner jacket, waistcoat and tie, ripping off the cufflinks with rueful vigor. Already he missed his uniform, the free-moving swaths of breathable cotton against his bandaged arms and legs.

It was amazing what three months on a battlefront did to a man—a desert battlefield, no less. Arthur bent and leaned his elbows on the sink, his head in his hands, fingers pushing into his hair. He'd felt restrained all throughout dinner, chafing in his wool suit and choking in his tie. Worse, his hands shook more noticeably. Almost every moment was spent half-afraid people would hear the clatter of his silverware on the plate; it was pathetic, and weak.

 _No._ He was not weak. Just tired.

Churchill had to stop sending him to the front on a moment's notice. It wasn't healthy. He was going to go mad the next time he had to keep his feet between two worlds. He may have been able to move between them with greater ease and less danger than anyone else in Britain—well, perhaps not France, who was very likely turning his home into a rubbish bin of tasteless French art as he stood there—but his mind was not as flexible. Churchill, a veteran himself, had to understand that. He would, if he could convince him.

Pulling himself upright, Arthur turned on the tap and splashed his face with water, dipped his hands under it and ran them through his hair—not that it would do anything to tame it, but the cool drip felt nice on his skull.

The reality of a two-front war was drawing closer every day. He could feel it latching itself to the line between phone calls with Australia and New Zealand, Burma, Siam—the whole lot. With Africa the disaster that it is, Arthur was beginning to wonder if this was his last stand.

Well, there were worse ways to die, he supposed. At least he would go down fighting, the way France and Spain had always vowed.

He checked the bandages on his chest and arms before replacing all of his over-clothes and returning to the parlor, where Churchill's motley group of family, aides, and Americans were resting after dinner—or, they were supposed to be. Two of the aides were bickering, Churchill's daughter and daughter-in-law watching in disbelieving silence. Martin, his private secretary, was gone.

Churchill himself asserted his presence a beat later by slamming the top of the radio down and rising. Arthur jumped. Harriman and Thompson fell silent.

What in blazes was going on? Had there been an accident somewhere? Another loss? This seemed a rather exaggerated reaction if it was the latter, but minds were everywhere at the moment. No one knew what to expect.

Then, unbelievably, like the whole scene was a stage play reenactment that Arthur had unwittingly walked into, Churchill's valet, a man named Sawyers, hurried in. "It's true," he blurted, clutching his hat close against his narrow chest. There was a horrible apprehension on his face. Arthur almost wished he didn't have to know why.

"The Japanese have attacked the Americans."

* * *

Footnotes (this chapter is complicated, so bear with me on this one):

1\. **Japan** : In August 1941, America placed an embargo on all assets and the supply of oil to Japan (to which Britain and the Netherlands followed suit). Japan desperately needed oil, among other resources, to fuel their war machine, which prompted "peace" negotiations. Before that, around 1937, the US ceased all exports of iron and scrap metal in retaliation for their invasion of China, followed up in September 1940 with an embargo on metal exports. The US didn't truly trust that Japan wanted peace at this time, and in truth the Japanese weren't sure, either. Only Emperor Hirohito was preventing war by claiming he did not want open conflict with America.  
Information Source: _World War II: The Definitive Visual History_ , by DK Publishing

2\. **Roosevelt** : His mother, Sara Delano Roosevelt, did die 7 September 1941. Purely devoted, she doted on him at every stage in his life. She had a tendency to treat him like a small boy regardless of his age, but in spite of that he liked being the object of affection. He was with her when she passed away, and her death hit him hard.

On a different note, he had been an avid stamp collector since he was a child and utilized that hobby to promote his agenda - i.e. designing postage stamps. It worked, too.

The story he tells about being in France in 1918 is true, here in the broadest sense. Some of the details are fictionalized, but the event stuck with him for the remainder of his life. He spoke about it in 1936 as he gave reasons to keep America out of the war.

 _Sources for Roosevelt:  
_ a. "FDR's Stamp Collection: A Childhood Hobby He Took to the Oval Office" - Cheryl Ganz (video narration) and Jordan Steffen (article), Smithsonian Magazine website  
b. "First President to Fly in/Steer a Blimp?" – Franklin D. Roosevelt Presidential Library and Museum Collections website  
c. _Franklin and Winston: An Intimate Portrait of an Epic Friendship_ , by Jon Meacham  
d. "Franklin Delano Roosevelt – Assistant Secretary of the Navy" – National Park Service website.

3\. **Dr.** **Joseph Warren:** One of the most underrated men in American history. A revered doctor in Boston and a skillful propagandist, he was a good friend of Sam Adams. An interesting anecdote involves him in 1775, on what was dubbed "Massacre Day" due to the Boston Massacre on 5 March 1770, giving an address in a toga - an allusion to the play _Cato,_ about a Roman opposing Caesar's tyranny. As stated above, he died early on, at Bunker Hill. He was so important to the cause fostered by Sam Adams and John Hancock, among others, that if it weren't for his death, he likely would have taken George Washington's place as Commander of the Continental Army.  
Source: _Bunker Hill,_ by Nathaniel Philbrick

4\. **Native America** : The theory presented about Alfred's parentage is a personal one that may or may not defy the canon stories. Basically, the theory is that every birth by a personification signifies a change - a change that the parents may not understand yet, but will present itself in time. If the countries of the earth are personified, perhaps there is something guiding that - something straight from the earth itself. Just a theory.

 _sachem =_ chief

 **Massachuset** : A Native American people who lived along the Massachusetts coastline. Their lands included Boston and the Massachusetts Bay area, which is why I chose this tribe for Alfred and Matthieu's heritage; I think Alfred's a Bostonian at heart. In Matthieu's case, however, the Massachuset did not live close to the Canadian border, but they were an Algonquian-speaking people, the various dialects of which were the most widely disbursed throughout the northeastern region.

 **Mohawks:** A Native American people who, by the time of European occupation, comprised about three villages near present-day Schenectady, New York. Of Iroquois origin, the name they gave themselves was "Kahniekehake", meaning "people of the flint".

The references to Champlain and 1609 allude to Samuel de Champlain's establishment - on behalf of the French Crown - of the settlement that became Quebec, as well as the fur trade and military alliance he forged with the Montagnais, the Odawa, and the Huron (all Algonquian-speaking). In exchange for their cooperation, Champlain lent arms to the Huron to attack the Iroquois, whom the Huron were mortal enemies of.

It was a common practice by the Iroquois Confederacy (of which the Mohawks were a part of) to take captives from other villages and bands when their numbers were depleted, whether by war or disease, and to adopt them into their society. This happened most often with women and children. Men were, at times, not so fortunate.

 _Sources for all information on Native America:  
_ a. _A Little History of Canada_ \- H.V. Nelles  
b. "Massachuset" - editors of Encyclopedia Britannica website  
c. "Mohawk" - editors of Encyclopedia Britannica website  
d. "Northeast Indian" - Elizabeth Prine Pauls and Elisabeth Tooker, Encyclopedia Britannica website

 _I have done my best to be accurate and respectful towards the cultures and any living descendants of these tribes, but if you see any inaccuracies, do not hesitate to correct me._

5\. The dialogue from the third section - beginning December 1941 - comes from _Franklin and Winston_ (see above), which has subsequently quoted it from volume three of _The Churchill War Papers_ , complied by Martin Gilbert

6\. Burma, 1941 = Myanmar, present-day  
Siam, 1941 = Thailand, present-day

7\. Extra Sources: _The American Revolution: What Really Happened -_ Alan Axelrod  
Quote Source: The Poetry Foundation


	4. Hear Me

**Hear Me**

" _If the present criticizes the past, there is not much hope for the future."_

\- Winston Churchill, 26 December 1941

 **24 DECEMBER 1941**

The National Christmas Tree lit up the night sky, towering upward and blotting out the stars with electric beauty. The crowd gathered in the White House's South Lawn sang carols around it, and when they weren't doing that they were drinking, laughing, chattering, _living._ As if there wasn't a war raging on either side of America's isolating oceans. The merriment was a relief, to say the least. Despite having been in the war for less than a month, Alfred could already feel it taking its toll, the improving economy amassing the muscle he'd lost during the Depression while the mass of exports and the draft stole it simultaneously.

Still, even with those strains, he was lucky.

He glanced across the balcony to where Roosevelt and Churchill stood on either side of a pillar adorned with garland, their lips moving in quiet conversation as they admired the Tannenbaum. Both of their speeches that night rang with the hope and optimism his people would need for the coming times. A pensive grin curled Alfred's lips, but a spear of resentment dropped it when he thought that Arthur was probably nearby, avoiding interaction. Avoiding him.

Alfred turned away.

 _Shhh—tick—shhh—tick._

"I was sorry to hear about the _Prince of Wales_. Those boys will be missed," said Roosevelt above the liquid cacophony of the shaker. Churchill's first full day on the grounds had passed in exploration and a press conference; now, as the sun went down, the Americans and their English guests were gathered in the Red Room, passing the time before dinner with a "children's hour", as Roosevelt affectionately called it.

Alfred's head lifted in time to see Churchill's pink face alight with strain, a deep sorrow he didn't think the Prime Minister knew quite how to verse. "A shame that was, yes… Who should have known that nearly half the men who sang with us were so soon to die?" A thinly veiled despair rose behind his words, and Alfred bowed his head to the martini in a whiskey glass, trying to recall when Roosevelt might have mentioned the warship's loss in the blur of the past two weeks, but he couldn't place any mention of it other than his fondness for the memory of the church service in Newfoundland.

 _Tick, tick._

The _Prince of Wales_ , gone. Lost somewhere out in the Pacific, forever. Churchill was right—who _would_ have known? How many men, how many lives? No personification had prescient abilities, and Alfred knew the possibilities were endless. After all, 2,403 were already gone—49 of which were civilians—and more were on their way… _Tick, tick…_ The clock on the mantel ticked away the lives lost each second to fighting, to disease, to—

"God might've known," came a condescending voice from the armchair across from him, followed by the clink of a glass as Arthur drank. Alfred glanced up, intending to glare at his sick gallows humor, but then he saw the grimace that crossed Arthur's face and the narrow look he gave the drink Roosevelt had made for him and looked back down, smirking.

They had spoken—albeit not outside of other company—since Churchill arrived in Washington the evening before, flying in from Hampton Springs after thirteen days on the _Duke of York_.

Alfred felt his fingers grow cold around the glass. How long would it be before that ship sunk, too? How many lives would be ripped away without a moment's notice? Anything in the Atlantic was fair game now that Hitler had chosen to war with the United States. As if opening a Pacific front hadn't been bad enough.

 _Tick. Tick._

Despite the bursting energy of the people around him, the excitement of war finally coming to America's doorstep, all Alfred wanted to do was jump across the oceans and knock sense into the aggravators until they agreed to surrender. Roosevelt, for all his talking about hating war, didn't seem to agree. He was concerned, yes, and deeply worried, but unlike Alfred he was good at hiding it.

It wouldn't be won overnight. Alfred knew that, and yet he still found himself wishing that, just this once, the powers that be would help them out. Strike Hitler and his cohorts with a debilitating illness, stick Tojo in a box and refuse to let him out until the treaties were signed and the machines disarmed. He was certain he wasn't the only one.

But this was change—a big change.

And he should have braced himself. He should have fully heeded Roosevelt when he reiterated a hundred times, rightly, the importance of being prepared. Alfred should have known, in the days leading up, that the President was on to something when he returned early from his Thanksgiving retreat at Warm Springs and put the military on high alert, but when the dull pain—far off and enclosed inside a land that wasn't quite his—struck just after 12:30, it had caught him so inexplicably by surprise that he had dropped everything in his hands—from the coffee to the papers.

Two weeks had passed since then, and it had quickly become clear that he had to take responsibility for _everything,_ as if the whole damn world had waited breathlessly for his entrance before surging forward with bony hands and arms outstretched. Begging for resuscitation.

 _Tick._

Unfortunately, Roosevelt and Churchill weren't making much effort to correct him, and Arthur—the one person who could have given him advice on how to cope—had barely said a word, save for the looks that safely said, "Told you so."

 _Told me what?_ _That I asked for this?_ He didn't. The only consolation he had was that Roosevelt had been wrong: He, technically, hadn't been responsible for creating the worldwide conflict. Hitler and the Japanese had seen to that.

Now he faced the almighty task of maintaining his role as morale-booster while all-too-often telling himself that he, Alfred F. Jones, did _not_ get nervous.

 _Tick._

"Right you are, Lord Britain!" Churchill boomed, startling Alfred. Would he ever get used to his sudden oratories? "That is something the Japanese don't have—God—but for Christian, English-speaking peoples, as we are, He will soar towards the earth and reap destruction on all who oppose His authority!"

"Never heard that one before," Arthur muttered, expertly, behind his glass.

Alfred's smirk revived and, from behind his own glass, replied, "Yes, but he also said 'English-speaking'. France isn't going to be too happy about that."

No amusement graced his face, but Arthur did spare him a look that was a little less scathing. It was something; Alfred would take it.

He looked somewhat less wretched than when they met in Newfoundland, but the shock of seeing him so thin lingered. No matter how many layers of clothes he wore to hide it, the gauntness lived in his cheeks and his eyes, belying—even a year later—the harrow bestowed from months of relentless bombing. Alfred couldn't help the twinge of guilt that resurfaced under his sternum, the same that haunted him after the Revolution.

Arthur used to be so much bigger, so much greater. To see him reduced to this husk…it hurt.

Was it his fault? Arthur would certainly phrase it that way, and he would be right. He could have done a lot more in 1940.

He hadn't wanted to do more in 1940.

Alfred sighed, bending forward, the empty glass dangling between his knees. He wished Matt were here. Then both of them could have had a friendly, non-political face to talk to.

"How about another sippy, Lord Britain?" Roosevelt chimed, replenishing his own glass. In the chair nearest him, Eleanor eyed it with nervous resignation, and Alfred offered her an empathetic grin. After Hall, he understood her anxiety.

Arthur, on the other hand, eyed it with a civil level of distaste. "No, I'm—"

"Would you like gin or rum?" Roosevelt interrupted, already pouring the vermouth and apple juice liberally into the shaker.

Arthur pressed his lips together, but before he could try to answer a second time, Churchill inserted, "Go with the rum. Indulge in the old days, m'boy, if only for a night!"

At that, Arthur twisted sharply his seat to glare at Churchill's jolly truculence as he lit a cigar—his third this hour. Alfred, for his part, only managed to hide his laughter by handing a secretly puzzled Roosevelt his glass. The President was sharp and elusive when he wanted, but few people knew about Arthur's old delinquent habits, and he wanted to keep it that way; Alfred only knew because of their past relationship. "I'll take some rum with mine this time."

Arthur spun back around. "You have had three drinks already," he said viciously, though Alfred thought his anger was rather more directed behind him than forward.

Assuming that, Alfred shot back, "My tolerance is much higher than it used to be."

The direction of his anger switched, and Alfred realized the mistake he'd made: referencing the past. Something changed in that moment—the lightheartedness of the jokes, Arthur's willingness to talk to him—and the entire room felt it, from the tops of the gilded scrolling on the fire-engine-red walls to the ormolu mounts on the furnishings—the _French_ Empire-influenced furnishings, betraying all too openly America's history and relative amiability with Arthur's greatest enemy.

When his piercing stare came to be too much, Alfred looked away, and Roosevelt took the helm. "Would you prefer gin or rum, Lord Britain? I prefer gin, but if you're a rum drinker, what I've got is the finest in the Virgin Islands—"

"Is it?" Churchill blurted. "That's one of your territories, yes?"

Alfred liked to think he did a good job of _not_ reacting to that statement, but who knew what Arthur picked up.

Enough, it seemed. Arthur's tone dripped with triumph. "If you must prepare your mixed drinks, I'll stick with gin," he drawled. "Please."

A chill white-blue had iced over the hot, passionate reds of the room, but Roosevelt didn't miss a beat. The shaker resumed its metallic melody, and he poured Alfred's drink.

He took it with mumbled thanks and knocked most of it back in one gulp. In his periphery, he glimpsed Arthur staring at him and smirking.

It was the territories, of course. Alfred could already hear Arthur's winning words in his head. _How very imperialist of you._

 _Dammit,_ Alfred thought now, on the balcony facing the South Lawn. After cocktail hour last night, they had hardly said a word to each other, nor were either of them making much of an effort to. Arthur had been willing to talk, so long as he got to be disdainful, but then Alfred went and opened his big mouth and shut even that option down. Roosevelt, undoubtedly, wasn't pleased. In their private meetings prior to Churchill and Arthur's arrival, he had repeatedly dropped hints that they needed to resolve their issues while he was here, and Alfred hadn't been able to find the right words to tell him that was easier said than done.

Something about him being in the White House, after all this time, felt uncannily like a sign. They had shared _so much_ together. All of Alfred's fondest memories were with Arthur, but so were his worst, and it was those that painted over the best ones with resentment.

They had committed unspeakable crimes against one another, burned bridges that couldn't be rebuilt, and without a foundation of trust and forgiveness—which neither of them had at present—there would be no resolution.

He wanted to, though. Alfred wanted to reconcile that relationship with the only father he had ever known, wanted to tell him everything he had seen and accomplished over the 160 years they spent without speaking. But he couldn't, not after a simple reference to his past _drinking_ habits pissed him off. Bringing up his success in the wake of Arthur's loss was the surest way to never speaking on good terms again, at least not right now. Alfred always believed that time apart did everyone good once in a while, but for Arthur…

Alfred shook the thought from his head, drawn back to the present when he heard a sound like breaking concrete below him. He was clenching the balcony railing so hard that it had cracked and crumbled in his hands. Releasing his grip, he wiped his hands on his pants, gritting his teeth when one of Arthur's old reprimands about not dirtying his clothes popped into his head.

He moved to another part of the balcony and faced the South Lawn once more, hoping to lose himself in the liveliness of the party, but it was hopeless. The merriment was lost on him. Sighing, he pushed his glasses up his nose and turned to go, tuning his mind to the sordid paperwork that awaited him on the desk in his rooms, but movement in the shadows shrouding the back wall caught his eye, and he froze.

Slowly, his hand reached for the gun tucked into his waistband, pulling it out and unlocking the safety.

"Don't shoot, Alfred," a voice hissed from the darkness. Deep, hardened by tragedy and loss. His English was heavily accented, as though he wasn't used to the difference in enunciation.

It was German.

Alfred kept the gun at his side to avoid attention, watching narrowly as a broad figure stepped out of the dark recesses, holding up his hands in surrender. He had a strong, grim face, with blonde hair neatly combed and oiled, and wore an ill-fitting brown suit, but it was his eyes that drew Alfred: ice blue, with shrouds that spoke of many sleepless, haunted nights darkening the skin underneath. They spoke of inexplicable guilt, but underneath that rested a sharp intelligence and eagerness to learn that Alfred had known a long, long time ago.

"Ludwig," he breathed.

His thin lips barely twitched. "It is good to see you."

Dumbstruck, Alfred nodded, taking in the rest of him. Tall, broad. "My God, you've grown up," he gasped. How _old_ was he now? Ludwig had been eight years old when Alfred last saw him, a shy boy with an extraordinary ability given to him by his brother to take down any man in a sword duel. Although he hadn't spoken English then, he had taken to Alfred like a fish to water, following him around the camp and watching diligently as he cleaned his musket—even sleeping with him in his tent on occasion. Now…

Now they were enemies.

The truth of the realization struck him with startling sorrow. He glanced around to make sure they weren't seen, but this section of the balcony was deserted. They were alone, but not safe.

Facing Ludwig, who was staring at him with uncharacteristic uncertainty, he cleared his throat and grunted, "What're you doing here? How did you not get caught?"

At the prospect of conversation—and perhaps relief that Alfred wasn't going to throw him out, yet—the uncertainty vanished, and his chin lifted with the same proud tilt Alfred remembered his brother wearing. "You would be surprised how easy it is to pretend being American simply by looks. I need to speak with you." He glanced at the party, which suddenly seemed so far away, in a reality Alfred no longer belonged to. "Privately."

Alfred considered denying it. He considered arresting him and making him reveal all the secrets and weaknesses that would win him the war, but that was the influence of national paranoia talking. This was Ludwig, the boy he'd befriended during one of the most trying times of his long life, and he had helped Alfred in ways that could only be achieved with his innocence.

Granted, he wasn't a boy anymore, or innocent.

His hesitation brought the uncertainty back to Ludwig's eyes, and Alfred realized that he expected him to act upon that paranoia. He expected Alfred to cast him away without hearing him out. Alfred wondered if he had tried asking the other Allies, wondered if any of them had given him the time of day.

Considering who they were, he doubted it.

Alfred grabbed his arm and dragged him away from the lit and guarded doors leading into the White House, taking him further away from the party until they reached the curve into the balcony's east side, so deep in shadow that Alfred had a difficult time discerning his features from the darkness.

"You've got five minutes," he said, stowing his gun. "Talk."

The relief that flickered across Ludwig's face lasted only a second. "You have heard about Hitler invading Russia, yes?" He spoke the name with vile disgust, like the bitter taste of old coffee on his tongue.

Alfred nodded. What was he getting at?

"Moscow has failed, so his goal is to take Stalingrad, and the Caucasus."

Slowly, Alfred's brow rose. That was new. "Why?"

"He _wants_ Russia, badly. Not only that, he wants to _embarrass_ Russia."

"So you take the city with the name of the dictator," Alfred muttered, more to himself. That made sense. Losing a city whose name was so intricately linked with Soviet pride would be a dangerous blow to morale. How had they not seen that coming? Or perhaps Ivan had and was simply waiting for the opportune moment to strike back. Either way, it was a warning he couldn't take lightly.

Tapping his finger on his bottom lip, Alfred glanced up at Ludwig, who looked on the verge of yelling at him to say something. "When will he move, do you know?"

"Next summer," said Ludwig hurriedly. "It is too cold for my army to do anything now."

Also made sense. General Winter was probably sweeping out thousands of Germans as they spoke. No, not probably. He _was._ Alfred saw the flickers of pain cross Ludwig's face.

"What about England?" Alfred ignored the clench of his heart as he said his name, anticipating news of more raids.

"He has abandoned invading Britain completely. He was going to, but Russia was more advantageous. Although…" Ludwig bit his lip and glanced over his shoulder, not entirely convinced that they were alone. Leaning closer, he whispered, "Hitler is developing a weapon—a _new_ weapon to attack Britain with."

Alfred's breath hitched. He hadn't had this conversation with Arthur yet, but it was on the agenda: Britain's project for splitting the atom. It had been under way since 1939, right as the war was beginning. The possibility that Germany would have the same idea had crossed his mind, and he had heard rumors about it, but he hadn't actually expected them to be true. He'd hoped it wasn't.

The fact that it was generated a very real, very terrible problem.

Leaning close enough that their foreheads were practically touching, he murmured, "Is Hitler building a weapon of mass destruction?"

Ludwig hesitated, that insurmountable guilt building in his eyes. "Yes—trying to, but that is not what I meant. He is developing a _different_ weapon, one that will be much more difficult to strike down before it hits its target."

"For the air raids," Alfred concluded.

Ludwig nodded grimly.

Alfred needed a minute to process this. He backed away, pushing up his glasses to rub his eyes. He hoped Ludwig recognized the risk he was taking. Provided it was true, everything he was telling him would get him hung if he was discovered. But Ludwig couldn't die, which would entail him to far worse suffering for betraying his country.

Was it betrayal? Or was he trying to save it?

As Alfred had done 165 years ago, with the Declaration of Independence.

Ludwig tried to wait patiently, but his anxiety presented himself in the way he kept glancing around, chewing on the inside of his lip.

Alfred rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. "They're not going to believe me without proof." They, the Allies. They, Roosevelt and Churchill. What _would_ they think if they saw him here, now, speaking on good terms with the world's greatest threat?

Step one: disbelief. Step two: anger. Step three: _ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend…_ As if all of this was his fault to begin with.

"I know. That is why I brought this," Ludwig replied, pulling from his breast pocket several folded papers. He handed them to Alfred with a look as though he was fighting not to burst. "If nothing else, they need to believe this."

Flashing him a furrowed look, Alfred opened the papers and skimmed them in the moonlight. They were in German, and—as he translated them into English in his head—appeared to be census counts. At first, he didn't see what was significant, but then he noticed that they referred only to specific minority groups—not just from Germany, but Poland and Hungary, too.

A grainy photograph was clipped to the last page.

The German officer photographed stood in front of a barbed wire fence, and he was laughing about something, but that wasn't what Alfred was supposed to see. In the background, behind the fence, he spotted blurs of moving people—all save for one, a child so emaciated that Alfred couldn't tell what gender it was at first. Barely more than a skeleton, the child stared unabashedly at the camera, printed clearly amid the smoky blurs.

He couldn't stare into her eyes. The camera lens had captured too well the terror and loss inside them. Children, above all, were the ones the governments were most concerned about protecting—even Germany's—but no one was foolish enough to think that could stop them from hearing the news that filtered in through the larger cities and the soldiers on leave. At that stage, any fear a child might have felt should have been distant, locked behind a place of innocence and the need to preserve themselves from trauma. Rarely did it press so close to home.

What was happening that would expose a child— _a child_ —to the very horrors they should have been too young to process thoroughly—and then _accept_ them?

This was unlike anything he had ever seen.

He heard a sniffle and looked up, but Ludwig's eyes were dry. Yet, the waver of fury in his voice was undeniable. "He's carting them off to labor camps. Killing them with work. I found out about it two years ago, but it has been happening for nearly a decade." He swore loudly, and when Alfred merely gaped, he snapped half in German, "Don't you understand? He's trying to kill off an entire race! And I should have seen it. He made it so damn obvious in his speeches, and these ideas have been prevalent for _decades_ —"

"Ludwig," Alfred interjected, finally finding his voice, but he ignored him, his voice rising the more he rambled. Alarmed, Alfred stuffed the papers into his pocket and seized Ludwig by the shoulders, shoving him against the wall. "Keep your voice down unless you _want_ to get caught."

Ludwig looked like he wanted to protest. Instead, his jaw trembled with the effort of keeping the words back. Every part of him was shaking, Alfred noticed, but whether it was from anger or guilt, he wasn't sure.

"God, what have they done to you," he murmured.

"Who is they?" he grumbled.

"Europe. The bastards in charge of your government."

Ludwig snorted, but his mirth was short-lived. He eyed the pocket Alfred had shoved the papers in. "This is my fault. The war before this was my fault. I brought this upon myself. I… I should be able to stop this alone."

"But you came to me because you can't," Alfred finished.

He shook his head. Tears slipped out, tracking moonlit trenches down Ludwig's cheeks, and he swiped at them in shame. Shaking off Alfred's hands, he marched to the railing, his fingers cracking the granite the same way Alfred's had. "I came to you for several reasons. That is one of them, yes. This… Hitler has deeply ingrained his beliefs in my people, and it is slowly killing them all. Those who dissent are shut up quickly and quietly. If he wins Europe, Alfred, we are doomed."

"Yeah, kinda figured that one out," he said, leaning against the railing beside Ludwig. "Where do Italy and Japan stand in all this?"

Perhaps it was a sign of how terrible a shape the world was in that Ludwig didn't even have to think about his answer. "Japan has not been happy since his military's actions in Nanking, but his sense of honor will not let him surrender."

 _Well, damn._ Crossing his arms, Alfred pursed his lips against a response and dropped his gaze to his feet. If that was _Kiku's_ stance, and his military's regime promised no surrender, he had no choice but to pull out all the stops. The ultimatum arrived too late, made Japan seem as though they were mocking him rather than requesting in genuine anxiety. They would have to pay; Alfred simply had no say in the matter.

So much for an easy fight.

Abruptly, it occurred to him that he had given Ludwig longer than five minutes, and there was a good chance—if Roosevelt and Churchill went inside before him and sent Secret Servicemen searching—that he would be caught and Alfred would have some very uncomfortable questions to answer. Not to mention he'd have mad-eyed Hitler to answer to for "stealing" his golden boy so soon after America's entry.

He glanced towards the South Lawn, scanning and listening as Ludwig went on, his graveled voice taking on a weary, distant air. "Italy… He is not himself. He won't acknowledge that this is a war, and his people are dying. He refuses to leave his home—or mine—unless he is threatened with pain." His last words left his mouth in an alert growl, complemented by a glare into the swaying woods beyond the safety of the balcony, but underneath them rested a deep, consuming concern. Alfred didn't know much about who Italy was under normal circumstances, but if the rep's reaction after essentially spurring the fascist movement inspired this much worry, the rest was easy to piece together.

"He's shutting it out."

Ludwig nodded, staring at his fingers as they slowly uncurled themselves from the railing. "It will be interesting to see how much he remembers when this ends…"

The question hovered, almost too afraid to ask itself.

It didn't. "That is another reason why I have come to you, Alfred. I know you can stop this." The utter conviction in his tone would have been heartwarming were it not that he was asking Alfred to be as much of a butcher as Germany and Japan.

Thankfully, past experience lent Alfred a good answer for that. He dropped a hand on Ludwig's shoulder, prompting him to look up. It took him a moment to find the right words, but even as he spoke them, he wasn't sure they were the right ones. "You can stop this, too, you know. I can't promise that this will be resolved soon. We're not even in Europe yet, and I've got Japan on my ass, too, but I promise you it will end. Whether by me or England or Russia, this _will_ be stopped."

He nodded solemnly. Bless him, he didn't even look upset that Alfred wasn't totally reassuring him.

Ludwig was younger—somehow, despite how much older he looked—and while his people were undoubtedly intelligent, they had been crafted, from the onset, by war. It was virtually all he had ever known, and from that knowledge came the grim acceptance that every conflict held the possibility of being his last.

This, the war that still managed to come after the War to End All Wars, was no exception, and yet, it didn't scare him. Alfred admired that.

"In the meantime," he continued, "do everything you can to slow down your country's movements. Keep giving me intel, and we can make this war a lot shorter."

Again, Ludwig nodded, and this time, a glimmer of a grin crossed his lips. "Is that an order?"

Despite himself, Alfred grinned. During the Revolution, Alfred had taken advantage, ordering Ludwig to fetch him whatever he needed. The boy had been more than eager to do it, and his brother hadn't minded. It built discipline and obedience, he'd said. Nothing a rule breaker would know.

But now the lines were blurred.

* * *

Christmas dinners, Arthur soon discovered, were large affairs at the Executive Mansion. Roosevelts hovered all over the place, blathered and drank all across the table—save, perhaps, for the First Lady. He'd noticed rather quickly that she wasn't fond of alcohol, but he didn't understand her well enough to know why.

Alfred probably could have answered that question, but Arthur was still upset about his flippancy in the Red Room two nights ago. They were fortunate both the President and the Prime Minister had been in the room at the time, or else it might have degenerated into something worse.

As it was, Arthur ended up sitting across from him in the center of the dinner table, an arrangement not-so-subtly planned by the leaders. Matthieu, who had arrived from Ottawa that morning, dined to Alfred's left, conversing lightheartedly with the people around him—also on the leaders' suggestion. A wise one, Arthur believed, even if the lad looked too distracted to think of picking a fight. He had barely touched his meal, pushing the game around his plate.

Though he doubted it was purposeful, that alone succeeded in annoying him—the sheer fact that Alfred had the luxury of saying _no_ to a meal because he knew there would be plenty more available when he was actually hungry. Meat, in particular, was almost absent in Britain by this point, thanks to the rationing and exports to their soldiers—

And here Arthur was, eating heartily, when his people needed it far, _far_ more. Blast all, was there anything he did here that _didn't_ make him feel guilty at his people's expense?

Or was he simply allowing their attitudes and resentment towards the Americans' late entry to shape his own perspectives?

 _Promise me, Alfred._

Stiffening, Arthur's fought to keep his hands from shaking worse than they already did as he set down his silverware and reached for the glass of wine, but the pungent, fermented sting in his nostrils as it went down his throat wasn't strong enough to shut out the words. They echoed.

Then, all of a sudden, as if he had been waiting for that precise moment, Roosevelt's voice rose above the quiet din of chatter and clinking dishes. "If you'll recall, this is the very room where I dined with King George and Queen Elizabeth on their visit in '39. It was a marvelous time—"

"I don't remember that."

Arthur risked a glance upward to find Alfred had finally roused from his stupor and stared, bemused, at Roosevelt.

For his part, the President looked far too satisfied underneath that well-worn mask of indifference. "In early June?"

"Positive. I would remember if a reigning British monarch was on American soil." This said with an impersonal glance Arthur's way.

He didn't return it, focused on Roosevelt. Arthur may have spent the last 160 years pretending he wasn't aware of America's movements, but he had known the President asked his King to join him in Washington for brief interplay during their tour throughout Canada. No one had dared to hide that fact from him. In fact, he probably would have accompanied George and Elizabeth if he hadn't been so absorbed in preventing war. Pity his efforts didn't make a damn bit of difference. Why should Roosevelt's?

The President, adding insult to injury, made an unsolicited show of searching through his perfect memories. "I'd nearly forgot—you weren't here."

"That's right, you were with me—he sent you up for some down time," Matthieu added, nudging a sincerely confused Alfred with his elbow. "Remember, I was stressed about the Royal Tour, and you kept joking about having Mackenzie King just showing them to Boston and you'd take care of the rest?"

Polite laughter burst round the table, but neither Alfred nor Arthur or even Churchill were among the humored. Seated at the opposite end, Churchill was too preoccupied with his address to Congress tomorrow to have heard properly; several seats down, Alfred's expression shuttered, turning stony as slow comprehension crept into Matthieu's amusement.

Arthur's fingers curled in his lap. "Hilarious," he muttered.

Alfred's cheeks flushed pink, and his gaze dropped back to the plate; Matthieu did the same and cleared his throat.

"…first time a reigning monarch has ever set foot on American soil," Roosevelt was saying, proudly. "They stayed here for a night or two, and then I brought them up to Hyde Park…"

Arthur tuned out his blather, picking up his silverware again. Roosevelt's sidekick was no longer listening, either—that much was obvious by his total abandonment of attempting to eat.

Thus far, the two had managed to avoid bringing Boston into any conversation. The city itself was a sensitive subject, and Arthur didn't particularly care to discuss how much history—good and bad—resided within its winding streets, untouched and, with any luck, buried beneath redevelopment.

In his periphery, Arthur saw Matthieu's arm reach over. It didn't take much imagination to see his hand taking Alfred's and squeezing. A silent apology—straight from the heart.

It wasn't fair.

Pursing his lips, Arthur set down his silverware and put the cloth napkin on the half-eaten plate. Guilt be damned. His appetite was ruined.

* * *

The static roar of the Senate as they greeted Churchill filtered through the radio, filling the Oval Office with a white noise that Alfred was accustomed to concentrating under. Roosevelt worked, too, as did Arthur, though they made a point of keeping as far away from one another as they could politely manage. That alone did wonders for his focus, and his bottom lip sunk under his teeth as he worked, reading quickly through the bills and the executive orders Roosevelt was considering and sorting them in piles.

A bill for rationing—yes. It was going to happen, whether they liked it or not, and it was better to start early than regret not doing it later.

A bill approving funding for the development of an atom bomb—a reluctant yes. He thought of Ludwig's visit, the intel he'd freely given. The weapons he'd claimed Hitler was developing for England. The census counts Alfred was so afraid of losing that he kept on his person at all times.

He hadn't found a way to tell Roosevelt yet—much less Churchill—but the inevitable question of why he'd withheld information would be more damning if he didn't tell them soon. The information he had wasn't completely unknown, however; intelligence and Hitler's past speeches had given them a vague idea of what was happening to select minorities in Europe, but…that horrible photograph. It haunted him in his sleep.

Suppressing a shudder, he set the bill in the appropriate pile and turned to the next piece—two executive orders displacing Japanese-Americans from the west coast into internment camps.

Definitely not. If America did that, they might as well switch allegiances.

At the thought, he allowed himself a terrible moment of dark humor, imagining Arthur's face when he told him he had switched. _Surprise!_

Then, a familiar gruff, intensely passionate voice spilled through the radio's speakers, and he looked toward it, humor gone. Roosevelt likewise set down his work to listen.

"…my American forebears have for so many generations played their part in the life of the United States, and that here I am, an Englishman, welcomed in your midst, makes this experience one of the most moving and thrilling in my life, which is already long and has not been entirely uneventful." There was a brief pause while faint laughter echoed before, with considerable more affection, Churchill continued, "I wish indeed that my mother, whose memory I cherish across the vale of years, could be here to see—by the way, I cannot help reflecting that if my father had been American and my mother British, instead of the other way around, I might have got here on my own." Here he paused again, and while Roosevelt grinned, Alfred turned in his seat.

On the sofa, apparently nonchalant, Arthur's focus was on the strategic map plan of operations in Africa that was spread across his lap, but Alfred wasn't stupid. He was avoiding eye contact.

"You knew," he concluded, as Churchill started again. Roosevelt shushed him.

"In that case, this would not have been the first time you would have heard my voice. In that case I should not have needed any invitation, but if I had, it is hardly likely it would have been unanimous. So perhaps things are better as they are…"

Arthur took an irritatingly long time to answer, swigging the gin in his hand with languid grace. Without looking up, he said, "Does that bother you, his mother being American?"

"No," said Alfred quickly, and when Roosevelt shot him another quieting look, he set his work on the chair and moved to the sofa opposite Arthur, "just didn't think you'd want me to be given leverage. Then again, I'm not the one picking fights."

A rueful smile. "If it's leverage you want, it would benefit you to know that he can trace his mother's male lineage back to a lieutenant in Washington's army." Draping his arm over the sofa edge, the glass clutched by the rim in his fingers, Alfred had the impression that there was something he wasn't saying, perhaps a scathing comment about the state of Alfred's militia in the Revolution, or Washington himself, whose portrait stared enigmatically down on them from above Roosevelt's head.

He had figured out why Arthur was so disdainful on this trip: it was something about being in the White House. It wasn't his home turf, his seat of authority, and he felt threatened by the wealth and presence of the growing, enthusiastic nation around him, so he lashed out at Alfred any chance he got.

This time, however, he was holding back, and Alfred didn't like it one bit.

So he put on his own sardonic grin for Arthur's scowl and replied, "Hopefully he was one that didn't desert, like so many others."

Arthur's expression darkened, but Alfred rose and returned to his chair before he could retaliate, effectively ending the conversation as Churchill reiterated his passion for an Anglo-American alliance.

* * *

 **JANUARY 1942**

Brilliant. Absolutely, bloody _brilliant_. Arthur had known this was a possibility, but he hadn't truly anticipated Russia _and_ China coming tonight—escorted by their noxious Ambassadors—to represent their leaders signing the Declaration of the United Nations as a bloated New Year's resolution. Though they were some of the last people Arthur wanted to see, he supposed it was better than—

" _Bonjour, Monsieur Président! Et Premier Ministre!"_

Blast all.

"And it is wonderful to see you, too, _Angleterre_ ," Française asserted, sweeping into the Oval Study with as much pomp as if his country hadn't essentially been torn in half, although Arthur supposed occupation had occurred often enough by this point that the pain didn't bother him. His escort disappeared to wait by the door for the other two to arrive. His Ambassador was nowhere in sight.

Seated stiffly on the same sofa he'd occupied for Churchill's Congressional speech, Arthur huffed and didn't answer, putting out his cigarette in the nearest ash tray. The dismissal earned himself an admonishing look from Churchill—as if he could hope to change his long history with the lecherous frog—and an amused little grin from Roosevelt, both of them seated behind the ceremonial desk, but he earnestly wished that Matthieu were here for some distraction. He should have been here, signing in his own name, but Roosevelt "didn't think it was necessary." A load of bullocks, that was, and Matthieu would have told him so—much more politely than Arthur could manage—not to mention heaven knew that Française missed his little colony; he asked about him whenever it was polite. Why he didn't go over there himself was beyond Arthur, especially now that he had no home to return to currently.

Française had been kind enough not to transform Arthur's home into something akin to the Empirical furnishings of the Red Room, but Arthur had returned from Africa to find it in complete and utter disarray. Books that he had spent hours arranging had been replaced in the wrong slots, clothes—many of which were _not_ Française's—were tossed carelessly over the furniture, and his apparent inability to clean his own dishes had left him baffled. He had no servant staff—he'd sent them off to the countryside when the Blitz began—so any cleaning was left to Arthur, and _all_ of it had been. He should have been grateful that Française hadn't broken into his Memory Room and trashed that, too, but, needless to say, he had been somewhat relieved when—less than a week after Hitler declared war—Roosevelt's invitation to the White House came. Yet, even when the thrill of arrival wore off, he wasn't quite ready to go back home.

To an extent, that baffled him even more.

"You look well, Mr. France," Roosevelt greeted, shaking his hand across the desk.

Good God, he actually preened. " _Merci, Monsieur Président—l'Amérique!"_ Française spread his arms wide to embrace Alfred as he trooped in with a face like an open book. He never did learn to mask his emotion well.

His head shot up upon Française's shout, the lost look on his face morphing into a wry smile. "It's been a while," he acknowledged as Française pulled away, nodding a greeting to the two leaders. He had been mysteriously absent at dinner; no one knew where he had gone, and Arthur didn't like that one bit. He doubted Alfred had been poking through their guests' things, but national paranoia did wonders to the psyche, especially when America's representative was willing to do anything _but_ shut it out. "How're you holdin' up?"

"Well enough," Française answered in reluctant English, "whenever the tea-lover over here decides he is willing to help."

Alfred laughed, though it sounded forced. "Better than being totally alone, I s'pose."

"Indeed," Churchill agreed, with twinkling eyes and a hearty grin. "Eighteen months, I tell you—it was a bloody nightmare, but Britain held up proudly. Her spirit did not break, and she shall win you back as well, you have my word."

Française quirked an eyebrow. No mutual warmth could be found within the cunning in his eyes. "Hopefully you will keep your word, _Premier Ministre._ "

Feeling the muscles in his cheek twitch and his lip start to curl, Arthur turned away. At this rate, he almost would have preferred a last stand in a two-front war. "Don't get comfortable, France. Roosevelt and Churchill have already signed. We're simply waiting for Russia and China, and the second that they sign—" He gestured pointedly towards the door.

Française listed his head in mock offense. "I cannot stay? But _les Américains_ love me—"

"They like the centennial gift. Frenchmen, not so much," Alfred interrupted, dropping heavily into a chair in front of the ceremonial desk as Roosevelt chuckled. For the first time, Arthur noticed the wrinkles in Alfred's attire, wind-whipped and untidily smoothed. His trousers rode up past his ankles, and his shirtsleeves stretched tightly around his arms as he rested his chin in his hand. Too tight, and the faint sweat stains on the collar betrayed its age. When was the last time he'd bought new clothes? He needed something that fit properly as a growing country and looked striking if he was to be an empire—

Allowing his lip to curl, Arthur looked away. That was his problem; not Arthur's.

Upon catching Française's annoyed expression, however, Alfred merely shrugged, rather than rectifying his admission. "People's opinion, not mine."

"Well," said Française, with noticeably less warmth as he tossed his hair over his shoulder. The gold tinge in his fair hair had dulled significantly since he came to England. Whether it was from lack of sunlight or the occupation, Arthur couldn't say, but he couldn't say he was empathetic, either. One less thing for him to brag about was more than he could have asked for. "My people certainly are not pleased with Americans, either," he finished, crossing his arms over the immaculate—if not slightly wrinkled—open-faced suit jacket, made from Egyptian cotton and paired a little too well with the silk waistcoat and tie sitting atop his cream-colored shirt. Even in war, his high-maintenance sense of fashion would not be hampered.

"Not surprising," Alfred responded blandly. Arthur could have laughed at his insouciance. It was beautiful. "I'm sure Louie's not thanking me."

Française's eyes narrowed. His gaze slid briefly to Arthur before his lips curled and his theatrical air revived. "No, Louis isn't, but what can be done? The Revolution was a long time ago, although I hope you have not forgotten my efforts in your time of need."

By the time he finished, Arthur's stare could have killed, and he knew it. That was why Française kept his back tilted towards him, avoiding the Medusa, and yet, Arthur had no one to blame but himself; he'd made the mistake of venting to Française shortly after the Newfoundland conference. He'd known these past 160 years were not ones he spent speaking to anyone but Matthieu in the Americas, and he'd used that knowledge to his advantage. Who wouldn't? Arthur learnt some of his best data-collecting skills from him, regardless of his flashy personality and identifiable attire.

Nevertheless, the mistake wasn't one he would be making again.

Alfred's jaw worked, but he kept ostensibly silent.

Roosevelt and Churchill shared a weary glance; their efforts thus far to reunite Arthur and Alfred had been many and fruitless, and neither were keen to have Française muck it up further. "We have not," said the former, "and your success on America's behalf will be kept in mind as we fight for the world's Democracies—ah, good, the Russians and Chinese are here."

Roosevelt was right. Voices could be heard coming down the hall—terse voices. China's representation and ambassador entered several moments later, followed closely by Russia's. All four of them wore sour expressions, but it was China that drew Arthur's attention.

If it was possible, he looked worse than he did, bone-thin from decades of broiling civil conflict and open warfare. His cheekbones and clavicles weren't as pronounced, but there was a sunken nature to his dark eyes that sent chills down Arthur's spine when they grazed over him. When they filled with hatred.

Still bitter over the Opium Wars, he guessed.

He and his ambassador, a bespectacled, smartly-dressed man by the name of Hu Shih, hovered by the parallel sofas while Russia and Ambassador Maxim Litvinov greeted the two leaders. When their turn was up, then the Chinese stepped forward.

With formalities said and done, Litvinov hovered to speak with Roosevelt and Churchill, the Chinese stood silently to the side, and Française made a point of haughtiness, but Ivan turned to Alfred, who grinned cockily and stood, the top of his head ending at Ivan's chin.

Fearing the worst, Arthur telegrammed Française with a glance and made to join them, but to his surprise, Ivan's polite brittleness melted into a wide smile. "It has been a long time, America."

"Too long," Alfred beamed, taking his proffered hand. "Holdin' up all right?"

"Germany isn't giving me too much trouble, just surprises, but that is normal."

Alfred chuckled—even less genuinely this time—and gave a one-shouldered shrug, leaning a hand against the desktop. "If it's any consolation, I won't be crossing any lines this time."

Ivan laughed, a full-bodied, bellowing thing that made Arthur's already-afflicted spine stiffen with dread. When Ivan laughed, it never boded well for its intended party. "Do not make promises that you cannot keep. You are old enough to know that."

Looking up into his face, Alfred simply winked, and this time, it was authentic.

Française and Arthur shared a stunned look, for once united in something other than mutual enmity. Was there truly _joy_ —no, mutual _respect_ —in that greeting? It would have been too big a stretch to consider trust within close proximity, but Arthur didn't sense any sort of misgivings between the two, which was far more than could be said for Ivan's relationship with every other representation in the study. To them—Arthur included—he was basically walking trepidation, a figure prone to suspicion and who did little to dispel those he acquired. Whether it was because they were right, or Ivan simply didn't care to change how they viewed him, Arthur couldn't say, but the fact remained: Alfred—naïve, young Alfred—had managed to make an acquaintance out of one of the least compatible nations. It would have utterly confounded Arthur had he not remembered a crucial piece:

The Alaska Exchange. Matthieu said they'd fallen into a fight.

Alfred learned, and Ivan gave him the rare privilege of acceptance.

The lad glanced briefly at Arthur, standing open-mouthed by the sofa, and something flashed across his expression before he offered a tight grin to China and Ambassador Hu and gestured to the desk, where the pens and Declaration waited, two signatures inked and still glistening.

"Ready, gentlemen?"

The silence in the study weighed heavily, holding its breath as China moved forward. Arthur could swear he heard the faint sound of the sleeves of his tunic brushing the polished wood as he picked up the pen, the scratching on parchment as he signed, phonetically, _Wang Yao._

Then, Russia: _Ivan Braginsky._

France: _Française Bonnefoy_.

Although Churchill had signed, Arthur took up the pen, too: _Lord Britain, Arthur Kirkland._

He felt Alfred's eyes on him as he stepped back, along with Roosevelt and Churchill's. Symbolism had a way of recalling sentimentalities, and Arthur was privy, in explicit detail, to what this meant: this document reflected the desires of leading Democracies—even ones topped by a monarch—in governing a free world where religious freedom, life, liberty, and independence abounded and continued to be adhered to.

In a way, the United Nations' Declaration was its own Declaration of Independence.

And it would likely live on with the same result, too: the dangerous delusion that the Democracies existed to liberate other "oppressed" peoples. Some claims would be true. Others would not.

Straightening his old coattails, Arthur clasped his hands behind his back and watched with a washed out gaze as the last and youngest of them, America, took the pen and bent over the parchment.

 _Alfred F. Jones._

Hereby, now and forever, independent.

* * *

It took Alfred several stupid minutes of staring at the doorknob to muster enough courage. Ludwig had visited him again last night, in the clustered expanse of grounds on the south side of Constitution Avenue. The intel he'd given him pertained specifically to England.

He had told Churchill already, expecting him to pass the information along.

Instead, he had suggested—no, _requested_ —that Alfred tell Arthur himself.

Now here he was, standing outside his guest room door.

Alone.

The door opened on the third knock. Arthur looked even worse than when he and Churchill first arrived, his skin almost yellow with stress and a twitch under his eye revealing the dull aches and pains of a strained societal pace.

An intense fear resided inside them, the likes of which Alfred hadn't seen in many years, but when they found his face, it vanished immediately. He straightened, crossed his arms over his chest, and stared.

Alfred stiffened, waiting for some reprimand or rebuke, but he was absolutely silent. When it became clear that Arthur was waiting for _him_ to speak, he coughed into his hand and began uncertainly, "I—erm… I have some news."

Arthur blinked, and his brow rose ever so slightly.

"C–can I…come in?" Alfred silently cursed himself for stuttering. _Stuttering._ Was he really that intimidated? Before he knew it, he was rambling. "I mean, if you're resting right now, I can tell you later—or Churchill can. He knows too, but he asked that I come tell you now because—"

"America, stop."

Alfred sucked in a breath and clamped his mouth shut. Arthur tried to appear indifferent, but he couldn't hide the pain. A grimace flickered across his face, and one of his hands shot to his flank, squeezing. Alfred started forward, but Arthur leapt back, his free hand flying out to stop him.

"England—"

" _Don't_. I'll be fine," he grated, looking anything but. His aloft hand was shaking. He sucked in several deep breaths and squeezed his eyes shut. Unsure of what to do, Alfred waited until Arthur's breathing evened out and his shoulders slumped, the tension leaving his body in the aftermath of a colonial raid.

From what Alfred understood based on the telegrams Churchill received, people were beginning to recognize the grim situation of the British Empire: not only were Rommel and his _Afrika Korps_ plowing away in Africa, but the Japanese—in the mere month that had elapsed—successfully tore apart Siam, Malaya, Hong Kong, and Sarawak, as well as French Indochina, and were in the process of destroying the Dutch colony of Borneo. Naturally, the other colonies were getting anxious, and that—coupled with the pain of the rampaged—undeniably made for a miserable time in the Crown's internal systems.

He wasn't the only one. Days after Pearl Harbor, Alfred felt Guam disappear. Then Wake Island—then the Philippines became a dull ache in the base of his spine. He hoped all of them—soldier and civilian alike—were safe, but he felt terrible that he hadn't been fast enough to do anything. Yet.

In spite of this, Alfred floundered, thrown and slightly hurt. How attached was Arthur to his colonies to incite such a strong reaction?

Muttering spitefully under his breath, Arthur tried to regain some of his dignity by holding his chin up and staring loftily at Alfred as if nothing had happened. "Make this quick."

Alfred nodded, about to ask if Arthur was all right, but he turned his back before he could.

It was a rare sight to see him dressed without a waistcoat, and his button-down revealed the unusually pronounced planes of his back; Alfred wondered how much of it was covered in bandages. Then he noticed that, for the first time that he could remember, his clothes were wrinkled, as though he had been sleeping in them. As he stepped inside, he noted the duvet on the bed was equally rumpled.

When was the last time he remembered Arthur looking anything but composed? It was unnerving, and it scared the hell out of Alfred to know that this wasn't even the worst to come, that the Germans were making something far worse. What if they couldn't stop it in time? What would happen to Arthur then?

He gulped, shutting the door behind him.

"Leave it open," said Arthur tersely, his back to Alfred as he positioned a cig between his teeth and turned the flint wheel on a steel lighter. His hands trembled, but whether from anger or pain, Alfred couldn't be sure.

"Can't do that," he replied. "Sensitive information."

"Of course it is," he grumbled, blowing away the exhaled smoke with a practiced wave. "Well, get on with it."

Alfred stared at the file in his hand, _Verschlusssache_ stamped boldly across the front. Ludwig had outdone himself this time, and in full knowledge of the consequences should its absence be discovered. But he had done it knowing that Arthur had enough strength and determination and care for his people to put an end to this before it even began—if he believed him.

Alfred prayed that he would. For both their sakes.

"Germany's developing a rocket," he began.

"We're aware of that. He's attempting to split the atom, correct?" said Arthur with no small amount of disdain, and the hint of a smirk. "So are we."

"He's developing a different one," Alfred clarified, dropping the file on the bed. He stepped out of range of the smoke; it was far too familiar for comfort. "And its primary target is you."

That gave Arthur pause, but only just. He set the cig down in the ashtray and turned, his indifference masterfully hiding a tide of emotion underneath. Alfred was too far away to see what it was, but he imagined the tide was somewhere along the line of fear, trepidation, and anger. Ever anger. Always.

"Is that so?" he said slowly.

Alfred inclined his head toward the file. Arthur snatched it and wrenched the cover open, translating the first page under his breath. The longer he read, the more his eyes widened, absorbing the data estimates and tactical advantages, and he flipped through the rest of the file with an air of earnest panic, as though he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

"Where did you get this?" he breathed. Behind him, the cig had doused itself in the ashes, unsmoked.

"Same source I got the information about Russia from." Only when Ludwig came to Washington on New Year's with a confirmation of Hitler's plans had Alfred finally managed to tell the group, but even then it was only after he'd pulled Ivan aside and spilled. He'd looked concerned, but his expression had belied little else. And that was that. He left, and Alfred could only hope Stalin believed him.

Arthur looked up, and just like that his treacherous fear closed. The only indications of it were the fingers clenched around the file as if he wanted to rip it in two. "What makes you think Germany can be trusted? How do you know this isn't a ruse to distract you from what's happening now?"

Alfred _had_ thought of that—multiple times—but the three times they had met there had been a similar panic to Ludwig's countenance that dispelled any suspicions he had. He doubted Arthur would take his word, but his word was all he had. "He's desperate for this to end."

Arthur scoffed. "He should have thought of that before he started this damn war. It's his fault we're in this mess."

"Yeah, and what's the alternative? Paying obscene amounts of money to countries that consider you beneath them?" Alfred knew the second he said the words that he wasn't referring to the reparations Germany had and refused to pay. Arthur caught on as quickly as he did, and his thoughts about it were made evident with the scowl that twisted his lips, but Alfred refused to take the words back. He meant them, 160 years later.

When Arthur remained silent, he continued, "I knew him as a kid. He's smart, brilliant with weapons… Even if this is a hoax, I don't doubt that he can make rockets like this eventually. That's why he's warning us now."

"Why would he give you the sketches, then, if he hasn't been able to make them?" said Arthur skeptically.

Alfred shrugged halfheartedly. "I dunno. Maybe he just snatched the file, not thinking about what was in it."

"Or because he's already perfected a model, and he doesn't need them anymore." Arthur's fingers tightened around the file.

Hackles rising, Alfred's hands clenched. "Why are you so bent on not believing him?"

"Why are you so eager to defend him?"

"Because—" Alfred cut himself off, knowing that if he continued, he wouldn't be able to calm down. Shutting his eyes, he took a deep breath. "Because he's not the monster you think he is. His people can be—just like ours can—but _he_ is not. He was a good kid, and he's a good man."

Arthur's eyes narrowed. "People change."

"Yes, they do." Removing his glasses, Alfred produced a cloth from his trousers pocket and cleaned the lenses. He made a point to shoot Arthur a hard look as he did, though with his terrible eyesight he was too far away to catch his reaction.

If there had been one, it was gone by the time Alfred replaced his glasses. "Think what you want, but I believe what he's telling me."

Arthur crossed his arms. "You're naïve. You always have been."

"People change," Alfred retorted, earning another narrowed glare and returning it with a smug smirk, the words flying out of his mouth before he could stop them. "And believe me, quite a bit's changed since you've been gone."

"Clearly, not everything has."

"So I'm naïve because I have faith?"

"No, you're naïve because you never _learn._ One hundred sixty years later and you still act like a child. You don't consider the consequences of your actions. You don't consider how it might affect people. It's never about anyone but yourself—"

"Are those the observations you've made over the past two weeks or has Matthieu been mouthing off to you over the years?" Alfred snapped, making no effort to hide his frustration any longer. He could feel his anger spreading swift and fast through his body. The rush felt good.

"Both, frankly." Arthur's cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were flashing in a way that reminded Alfred of their last interaction during the Revolution. "Not that it matters. Anyone could see that you're not fit for the responsibility of being a nation."

Immature though they were, the words stung, because deep down, Alfred knew he was right. Before the Depression—decades before it—he had been exactly what Arthur described: childish, naïve, impulsive, self-centered. He'd also been conceited, rude, and unbearable. If not for the fact that he was his brother, Alfred would have been surprised that Matthieu stuck around for as long as he did—and he was fortunate even for that. Some brothers weren't so loyal to blood.

But that wasn't what Alfred wanted to hear. In that moment, he realized that he only wanted one thing from Arthur, and it wasn't money or assistance or technology.

He wanted his father back.

He wanted that camaraderie they had when he was a kid, when he felt safe, and he could talk to him about anything. He wanted to listen the stories he spun about his adventures until he fell asleep. He wanted the warm bread pudding Arthur made every year for his birthday. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted…

Childish.

 _Naïve._

A father in Arthur wasn't for Alfred to have anymore. He had disavowed the title of son and brother long ago, on that rainy day in April 1781. The words still rang in his head, their fury singing with startling clarity.

 _I was never your brother. Your blood doesn't run through my veins, and that means I'm sure as hell not your son either._

His hesitation proved that Arthur had gotten under his skin. A small, indulgent smirk crawled further up his lips with every waiting second, until Alfred did the only thing he could think to do—lash out.

"I wonder where I get it from."

The smirk didn't disappear, but it dropped slightly. "You tell me."

"Why, so you can stomp all over that, too?" Alfred blurted. "So—so you can pretend that I never meant anything to you? That you didn't mean anything to me? So you can _push it all down_ like none of it mattered in the first place?"

"It didn't matter—"

"Liar," Alfred nearly shouted. He was beginning to alarm Arthur—he could see it on his face—but he couldn't stop. This was the discussion they had carefully avoided since meeting again in Newfoundland. It was the discussion—the argument, really—that they needed to have, but that they never had the nerve to begin. Now they were nearly at each others' throats, and all Alfred could think was how guilty he felt.

"Liar," he repeated. "Of course it mattered. You wouldn't have fought back if it didn't matter. You would've let me have independence—"

"I didn't give you autonomy freely because you weren't ready," Arthur snapped, forced to raise his voice in order to compete with Alfred's. "I stand by that decision."

"Wasn't I ready, though? I'd proven that I could get by on my own. I _have_ proven that I can get by _and_ be successful! Look at me—I'm powerful enough to help you now. On my own terms."

"As if I need a reminder, honestly," Arthur huffed, a bitterness in his voice now that he was having trouble masking.

Hearing it brought equally bitter tears to Alfred's eyes. What would it take? "Wouldn't that make you proud, knowing that you played such a role in my development? I–I've taken countless strategies from you, and they've worked—"

"Is that so? The last I remember, you wanted nothing to do with me." He spoke so quietly that it almost sounded humble, but Alfred understood differently. He was furious, but he wasn't about to stoop to Alfred's level, screaming and shouting. His fury was a quiet fury. A disappointed fury. "Frankly, America, I don't give a damn what you have and haven't taken from me. The…insurrection was a long time ago. I've moved on. We're in a different time, in a different war, and we need to focus on that—"

"I'm sorry."

The words died on Arthur's lips.

Alfred swallowed around the lump in his throat, digging his fingernails into his palms. "I'm not sorry for rebelling, but I am sorry for hurting you. I just… I wanted you to see that I could do something without depending on you. I was a teenager, I was stupid, I had no idea what I was doing, but I know now. I just never wanted to hurt you in the process." He wasn't ashamed by the break in his voice, but he couldn't look at Arthur, so he stared at the file in his hands instead. Arthur clenched it so ruthlessly that his knuckles were white. "I'm sorry."

The silence that followed was stifling. Alfred's blood thumped in his ears. He wanted to reach up and loosen the tie from his collar, but he remembered all the times that Arthur had insisted he dress as nicely as possible, even if it was uncomfortable. For whatever reason, he wanted to prove that he could follow at least one lesson Arthur taught him. Just once.

Right as the silence started to become unbearable, a low, mirthless chuckle broke it, and Arthur tossed the file carelessly onto the bed. Papers and sketches spilled across the duvet.

"Oh, _America_." Spoken with such scathing condescension that Alfred flinched. "You're going to have to do more than a simple apology."

Alfred glanced up. Arthur stared coldly back at him. Anger hid behind another lofty mask, another effort to prove Alfred wasn't worth a response.

It took him a minute to process the statement, another to realize he had lied.

Arthur hadn't moved on, and from the looks of it, he didn't plan to let it go.

Moving as if in a daze, Alfred took the file and left, shutting the door quietly behind him and leaning against the adjoining wall. When he let himself think about it, it made perfect sense why he would say that he had moved on when he hadn't. It was for the sake of his people, the war, and their cooperation to stop it.

Proving, indeed, that Alfred was not worth his time. He was an idiot for thinking that they could afford to have this conversation about their past with everything else going on.

Fury, sudden and hot, overwhelmed him, and he punched the wall behind him, feeling the plaster give under his fist. Looking down, he saw the cave it left behind and wondered if Arthur had heard that.

It didn't matter. He couldn't stand to be in the same building with him for another minute.

He knew what he had to do. Was it dumb? Probably, but if anyone was going to fight this war, it should be the ones tied directly to the land—those that can't die. Those that can fight until the world burned to the ground around them.

Pushing off the wall, Alfred charged down the hallway.

He was going to enlist.

* * *

Footnotes (take a deep breath and read slowly - there are a ton, but I promise they're concise!):

Sources Note: I have some repeating sources, so from here on they will be abbreviated thus:  
 _1\. Franklin and Winston: An Intimate Portrait of an Epic Friendship,_ by Jon Meacham = _Franklin and Winston.  
_ _2\. A Little History of Canada,_ by H.V. Nelles = _ALHC  
_ _3\. World War II: The Definitive Visual History_ , by DK Publishing = _WWII  
_ 4\. "All About History Book of World War II", by Imagine Publishing Ltd = AAHII

 **PART 1: 23 December  
 _1\. Prince of Wales_** _:_ The warship which hosted the leaders in Newfoundland was sunk by Japanese torpedoes on 10 December 1941, when it and the _Repulse_ intervened after Japan's invasion of Malaya. Losing this was a huge blow to British political morale; for the public, the direness of the British situation took longer to sink in, but in every book I've read about the war years of World War II, the _Prince of Wales_ and the _Repulse_ 's loss is mentioned with devastating consequence, giving Japan near-total command of the Pacific.

 **2\. Pearl Harbor** : Research has given me conflicting numbers on this one, but multiple sources have projected that 2,403 people died on 7 December. Given how often I see the number 2,400, I'm more inclined to believe it. The other option was 2,390, and that does not include the number of army personnel who perished (218) but left me rather confused as to where these numbers are coming from. The one certainty, however, is that the USS _Arizona_ did lose 1,177 sailors. At the memorial today, with the right wind, you can still smell the oil that floats up from the ship underneath.

The bit about the ultimatum is true. Japan sent one out before they attacked Pearl Harbor, but it arrived too late for anything to be done.

Likewise, there's a theory out there that Roosevelt knew about Pearl Harbor and let it happen because he wanted war. I think it's interesting, so I played with it a little bit in this chapter.

 **3\. Roosevelt's Slang** : Roosevelt did indeed call their cocktail hour "children's hour", and he considered it sacred, for mixing drinks was one of the few things he could do in public, and he made a ceremony of it to prove to himself and to others that he could do _something_ physical. And yes, he did say, "How about another sippy?"

 **4\. Hall Roosevelt:** Eleanor's brother. Between her father and uncles, her family had a history of alcoholism, and her brother, unfortunately, was not an exception. He died a few weeks after Sara Delano Roosevelt did. I'm not certain of the cause, but Eleanor always feared those cocktail hours morphing into alcoholism.

 _Section Sources:  
_ _a._ "December 7, 1941: A Day of Infamy" – a subscriber section prepared by several journalists and authors commemorating the 75th Anniversary of Pearl Harbor, published by The Indianapolis Star  
b. _Franklin and Winston  
_ c. _London at War,_ by Philip Ziegler  
d. Pearl Harbor tourism website  
e. _Unbroken,_ by Laura Hillenbrand  
f. _WWII_

 **PART 2: 24 December  
1\. Moscow, Stalingrad, and the Caucasus**:Fighting between the German and Soviet forces went well into the winter of 1941-42, finally halting for a well-deserved respite in January. War, however, resumed in May. Hitler's reasoning for invading Stalingrad is stated above, but the reason for invading the Caucasus was for its oil supplies. Cutting it off would hamper Soviet supply significantly and would allow the Germans to move into the Middle East and meet up with Rommel's _Afrika Korps_ and the Italians, cutting off British oil supply from the region (which included Egypt) as well. Stalin was alerted twice about this plan (codenamed Operation "Blue") but dismissed it as a ruse to divert attention from Moscow, Hitler's primary area of attack in 1941.

 **2\. "A New Weapon":** By the end of 1942, British intelligence knew that Germany had some kind of rocket program, and this spurred a wave of aerial attacks beginning in August 1943 to destroy them; however, the main developer of the V-weapons, Wernher von Braun, had been studying rocket propulsion for the Nazis since 1937, so it is very likely that they were in the process of developing them at this time.

 **3\. Concentration Camps:** Although it wasn't until after the invasion of the Soviet Union and the _Einsatzgruppen_ (mobile killing units) were removed from service that the extermination camps were created, concentration camps had been around for eight years by Christmas of 1941, beginning with Dachau, near Munich, in March of 1933. The Allied governments' belief, however, was that stopping the Axis was the surest path to ending the genocide, so not much was immediately done to help them, and the full extent of the Holocaust was unknown until the armies began liberating the camps.

The grainy photograph that Alfred sees was inspired by Jodi Picoult's _The Storyteller_.

"These ideas have been prevalent for decades" refers to nationalist racial theories present in Austria and Germany even before World War I.

 **4\. Nanking:** The Japanese military were not kind to their subordinate satellites during the brief period they held them. The Rape of Nanking is among the most well-known of these exploits into pillaging, obliterating, killing and sexually assaulting. The International Relief Committee of 1938 reports some 250,000 people murdered, but estimates are suggested to be higher. To this day it remains a large factor in tensions between the Japanese and Chinese.

5\. The idea of Ludwig being younger than Alfred stems from a personal theory that the Protestant Reformation incited by Martin Luther in 1517 would have marked Ludwig's birth—by who, however, I am not certain. Holy Rome would most certainly be the father, but what of the mother? Thoughts? Alfred, being born in 1492, would therefore be older.

 _Section Sources:_  
a. AAHII  
b. _Franklin and Winston_  
c. Primary Source  
d. _WWII_

 **PART 3: 25 December  
1\. The Royal Tour:** Coordinated by Canada's Prime Minister at the time, William Lyon Mackenzie King, the Royal Tour was a public display of the King and Queen throughout Canada in late May – June 1939, promoting the last remaining tie Britain had to its Dominion of Canada: royalty. However, this tour was _a big deal_ not only for Canadians, but for Americans as well. Roosevelt is correct when he says King George VI and his wife, Elizabeth—Elizabeth II's mother—were the first reigning British monarchs on American soil. His invitation was a bid to promote cooperative ties between America and Britain, and it worked. The effect of the visit changed American perspectives enough to give FDR the support he needed to pass things like the Lend-Lease without severe political consequence. (So yes, Arthur, Roosevelt's efforts made a great deal of difference.)

Sources:  
a. _ALHC_  
b. FDR Library website  
c. _Franklin and Winston_

 **PART 4: 26 December  
** 1\. The Emergency Price Control Act enacting rationing in the US was passed on 30 January 1942; the bill approving funding for the atomic bomb was passed eleven days earlier.

2\. **Japanese Americans:** The executive orders Alfred reads are #9066 (signed 19 February 1942) and #9102 (18 March), giving the US Army and the War Relocation Authority the ability to relocate Japanese-Americans—regardless of proclaimed loyalties and citizenship—from west coast areas thought to be permeable to Japanese attack. Forced to sell their homes and displaced into hastily-built internment camps, conditions were horrible and the whole system was carried out with obvious prejudice, suspicion, and xenophobia. _Korematsu v. United States_ ruled in 1944 that the US Army Exclusion Order No. 34 was constitutional in times of suspected espionage and peril. This case was later reopened in the 1980s, found unconstitutional by a federal district court, and compensation was given to those still alive.

On a personal note, I highly suggest researching this. It's disturbing how similar a line American persecution runs with the Nazis' scapegoating of the Jewish population.

3\. **Churchill's Voice:** A little belated, but, according to _Franklin and Winston_ , Churchill's voice when not orating was rather difficult to understand. He stuttered, and spoke often in similes and metaphors. For the sake of consistency, I am going to maintain his lion roar and gruff passion; however, circumstance may reveal a humbler side of his expressiveness later… The speech given to Congress above is also quoted from _Franklin and Winston,_ subsequent from _The Churchill War Papers,_ compiled by Martin Gilbert

 _Section Sources:_  
a. AAHII  
b. "Facts and Case Summary – Korematsu v. US" – US Courts government website  
c. "Food Rationing in Wartime America" – History Channel website  
d. _Franklin and Winston_  
e. "Korematsu v. United States" – Oyez organization website  
f. Primary Source  
g. _WWII_

 **PART 5: 1 January 1942  
1\. France:** His presence at the signing is a small liberty I've taken with history. _Franklin and Winston_ does not cite any French representatives at the signing of the Declaration of the United Nations, but if this document was a precursor to the UN, wouldn't it make sense for France to be there if he is a Security Council member? Likewise, this is the first time Russia and China are formally acknowledged as Allies in Washington, D.C., so it seemed fitting to have all five of _Hetalia's_ main Allies in the same room.

2\. Française is a French form of Francis. Although "François" is a closer translation, having the same meaning, I'm too accustomed to using Française, so, I apologize, but I'm keeping it. I like how it sounds, too.

3\. I took German and Spanish in high school, so I have almost no knowledge of the French language. Hopefully the French here is simple enough to deter mistakes, but if you see any errors, don't hesitate to contact me.

4\. The Memory Room is a personal headcanon stemming from the "America's Storage Room Cleaning" segment. It refers to the idea that the personifications keep souvenirs from their pasts and preserve them in a room, similar to the way we like keeping souvenirs from trips—tickets, maps, etc. For Arthur, some of these might include his old adventuring gear, Middle Ages chain mail, an old play script from performing in Shakespeare's Globe Theater, etc.

5\. "Louie/Louis" refers to the unfortunate Louis XVI, beheaded in the French Revolution.

6\. **Edit:** This was first published with the name "Ivan Braginski" on the Declaration. Turns out, the "-ski" suffix is Polish; it should be "Braginsky", as it is now corrected.

 _Section Source:_ "Human Names" - Hetalia archives.

 **PART 6: 13 January  
** 1\. Before the United States formally took over in August 1942 under the title of "Manhattan Engineer District", Britain's nuclear program—codenamed first the "Maud Committee", then "Tube Alloys" locally and "S-1" in the US—was created in 1941 after extensive research and reports from the late 1930s revealed how an atom bomb would work if it was created. Research in Germany exploded around 1938 after experiments by Otto Hahn and Lise Meitner established the chain reaction needed for an atomic bomb, but by 1945 (at the latest) research was in a woeful state. The urgency expressed by the British and Americans to develop an atom bomb was largely based on paranoia and fear of the Soviets more than real evidence.

2\. The place where Alfred meets with Ludwig is the future site of the German-American Friendship Garden, opened in 1983.

3\. Maybe this is already clear, but Arthur's attack stems from a colonial raid by the Japanese, probably somewhere near Burma, which would be captured one week after this conversation. Due to Hitler's focus on the Soviet Union, there were few or no _Luftwaffe_ raids in Britain after 10 May 1941, until the V-weapons campaign began one week after D-Day.

 _4\. Verschlusssache_ = "Confidential" (German)

 _Section Sources_ :  
a. _Franklin and Winston  
_ b. _Hiroshima Nagasaki_ , by Paul Ham  
b. _WWII_

Extra Sources: White House Museum website  
Quote Sources:  
a. "If the present criticizes…" – _Franklin and Winston  
_ b. "Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend…" – _King Lear_ , by William Shakespeare

For Disclosure: I am aware that this is the incorrect way to site sources. If this were published for all eyes outside the realm of this site, a bibliography would have been prepared properly, but this story is simply for enjoyment purposes, with research on the side. That said, I am terribly sorry about these _super_ long footnotes. My goal is only to explain some of the detail and theory a bit more clearly, and I hope they are informative.

And I _really_ want to hear your thoughts on this chapter! Did anything surprise you? How about the headcanons and theory; anything you agree or disagree with?

Lastly, a shout-out to the guest reviewer who reminded me that Churchill's mother was American. I hope the revelation met your expectations.


	5. Man's Nature

**Man's Nature**

" _When slanders do not live in tongues…  
_ _Then shall the realm of Albion  
_ _Come to great confusion."_

\- William Shakespeare, _King Lear_

 **13 JANUARY 1942**

Unnaturally steady hands lifted a burned-out cigarette from a tray and placed it between teeth; the sound of a door creaking shut echoed, lost, in his ears. A scraping strike of a flint wheel killed it, and an orange flame dulled the branded image of a lost boy in his mind. Finally, tobacco smoke, wafting willfully from the cig's burning end, unwove tension from his shoulders.

Not a moment too soon, there was a loud _thump_ across the room, making him jump like a soldier mistaking a champagne _pop_ for an artillery gun.

Arthur whipped around, ashes flying from the upturned ashtray, ready with his own resources lest Alfred be on the threshold, mad with anger. But the room was empty, silent, save for the terribly loud gold wallpaper, the braggart French Empirical desk, and the shoving wind calling his bluff through the window. The thump came only once before footsteps faded down the hall. His. And they were loud.

Arthur wouldn't have been able to make his feet move if he tried. Shock still held him hostage.

 _I'm sorry._

For all he knew, when Alfred uttered those words, was the creeping numbness that seized him, all-too-familiar in the two decades after his… After the Treaty of Paris was signed, whenever he allowed himself to think about his growing boy, to wonder what he was doing right that moment.

And whenever he hadn't.

* * *

Alfred stormed into the Oval Office without a knock or invitation. He simply slammed the doors open hard enough that he heard one of the hinges break and startled the two leaders bent over the desk. They shot into straight-backed positions—Roosevelt with a near-imperceptible wince, Churchill with a disarming scowl as he removed his reading glasses—and Alfred got a fine look at the United Nations' Declaration, blacker with new signatures.

Just what he needed—another reminder of his greatest achievement and Arthur's greatest failure. _Anyone could see that you're not fit for the responsibility of being a nation._

If that's what he thought, fine. He was about to prove it.

"I can't be around him," Alfred snarled, marching inside without bothering to mask a single nuance of his fury. Every part of him shook with the urge to do something violent. He could have flipped over the table between the sofas simply for being in his way, and he only barely managed to step around it. "I can't—not anymore. I'm tired of dealing with his inflexible, intransigent, _in_ corrigible—"

"Who on earth are you sending to hell, boy?" Churchill grinned cheekily, though his glinting eyes stayed worried. "He sounds like quite the devil."

"It should be obvious, I think," Roosevelt chimed in, without looking at his British equal. Calculating comprehension seemed only to deepen the lines in his face, but his slick smooth calm made Alfred want to scream. "Mr. America took my advice to resolve his past with Lord Britain, and it's proved unsuccessful, correct?"

Alfred didn't have time to answer before Churchill bellowed, his fear confirmed, "That can't be! I never told Lord Britain to—"

"Well, that's probably why it didn't work, then—he didn't receive an explicit order to forgive me," said Alfred coldly. He couldn't remember the last time his voice had held so much ice. "Yes, it failed. I did _exactly_ as I was told—by you, remember—I went to tell him _exactly_ what I told you, and he didn't believe me. Oh, don't look so surprised! You had to know this was going to happen eventually. You expected us to respect each other, and we tried— _dammit,_ you have no idea how much we tried—but _you_ should have prepared for the explosion instead of relying on _us_ for all the unpleasant work." Slamming Ludwig's file down on the desk, stamps and cigar ashes flew. Distantly, when he heard the Secret Servicemen step in and shut the doors, Alfred felt his anger reach new heights—ones he hadn't felt in a long, _long_ time.

Why, _why_ did everything have to be behind closed doors? He longed for transparency, open skies and free fields—none of which that _damn_ Brit were willing to give, much less a shred of humility. At least Churchill knew what it was, what it looked like. He was wearing it right now in his pink-less face.

Roosevelt, on the other hand, wore nothing as he casually reached up and brushed the ashes off his coat. If Alfred had been in his right mind, it would have been a signal to stop, to calm down or he would regret it, but for a man who was slow to anger, he was seething. He couldn't stop even if he wanted to. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe there are some things too unforgiveable to let go? Things _I_ havedone to him? Not that it would've make a damn bit of difference whether it was me who'd done them or not. That fucking Tory—"

"Now, wait a tic—"

"Doesn't know how to forgive. I don't know why I ever thought I could in the first place, but if I can't get his acceptance, _fine_. I'm finished dealing with him and all of his shitfaced British cynicism!" Rounding on Roosevelt, whose concern was faint and hidden between his close-set eyes, he went on, almost pleading, "Let me go, Franklin. You wanted me to resolve our issues, but I can't if he isn't even willing to _try_. The best thing I can do for this alliance is leave. I can't _stay_ here any longer—god, I hope you understand that. I can't play the part of your pretty little diplomat when we're in a damn war and I could be doing something real—"

He hadn't meant to say it. He only registered its implications when surprise and anger showed, unbidden, on Roosevelt's face. Alfred knew then he'd crossed a line, and Roosevelt might not let him go.

Or, quite the opposite: he would let him go, and he wouldn't request his presence back.

Alfred had been speaking from his heart, his desperation to be somewhere else, but in doing so he had implicitly tied his _cri de Coeur_ to the one subject he knew well enough never to discuss or point out in the President's company—or to anyone who wasn't aware.

Roosevelt's polio.

If it was possible, his slip made him even angrier. Perspiration started to form on his hot face, and his heart pounded in his ears, crying for restitution. He shut it out.

If he couldn't have a father—in Arthur, in Roosevelt, or even Washington—then it must not be for him.

And yet, a part of him wished Arthur was there; a part of Alfred wanted him to hear this, wanted to see his reaction, wanted him to get angry and yell with him for one damned minute instead of sinking into his cold, detached fury.

Again, he wanted, he wanted, _he wanted_ —just like a child.

"No. In no way will I tolerate this behavior." Churchill shook his head, rising from his seat. In the span of a second, he changed from a mere man into an inimical tank, blank offense and determination stiffening his rotund frame, but Alfred wasn't scared as he tucked in and launched, "I cannot hope to understand your history with Lord Britain, nor do I intend to diminish its solemnity and character, but attacking the tireless efforts that Franklin has—no, that _we_ have put into this conflict—is as terrible an act as if you were to hand over victory to the very jaws of death. We're putting down our guns and handing the Huns our own damn whiskey when we fight amongst ourselves. It leads us nowhere but into misfortune, and our spirits cannot and will not be broken this way!" He thumped his fist on the desk, animating the stamps some more. "Anything— _anything—_ like a serious difference would surely break my heart in this long story, but I must stand firm in telling you that what Franklin and I are doing is not fruitless cat-and-mouse diplomacy. It is _war_ we are waging from these sacred halls—in Washington and in London—and I should like to think you are old enough to understand that, if not believe it, young man—"

"I'm four hundred years older than you—"

But Britain's Prime Minister plowed on, refusing to hear Alfred anymore—for the moment. "You must understand that you are an invaluable asset in the Democracies' victory over the Huns—you are _necessary_ to it, being one of the forebears of the modern free world! We need you here and in safe hands—"

"I don't need coddling, Prime Minister, but if you want people to be safe, let me fight. I'll get your sons and daughters back here in no time." Alfred was speaking to both of them, but he was afraid to look at Roosevelt and see the disappointment. Not even Arthur would have been able to mask that had he heard Alfred's treacherous comment.

His most recent mistake, however, served only to dudgeon Churchill more. "You running off and enlisting is not the way we will win this war! You have more resources and more command in _Washington_ —"

"Washington wasn't as great of a general as my glorified history and your pathetic idealism would have you believe! You think he _wanted_ command of the Continental Army? He hated my militias! He wanted a fucking British commission! It was what he always wanted!" As quickly as he rose up, Alfred fell cold when he realized what he said. His paralyzing astonishment was reflected in Churchill's sudden silence, the cigar hanging listlessly from his lips. Alfred didn't even want to know what was in Roosevelt's face, if there was anything. Was he so angry that he was willing to attack the past? Or lose his head at the precise moment he needed it most?

Good God…was he his father's son?

It was good that there was a chair nearby; otherwise, he would have collapsed on the floor and stayed there. Alfred dropped onto the hard seat instead, fingers wrapping shakily around the arms. His glance darted once up to George's stoic portrait—the picture of a man once living and breathing and full of faults, the way everyone was; a man Alfred had once regarded as a father—and then his head fell into his hands, sucking in deep breaths.

The reality—the _madness_ —fell on him all at once. His peoples' sharp paranoia, everyone else's poignant hope, grief, anguish—

Churchill sighed, and Alfred heard the strike of a match. His nerves tingled in protest, and a memory pushed forth—August, 1814. He'd had to forcibly push James Madison out of the White House and to safety before the British troops set fire to it. He'd stood on the hills outside the city and watched it burn, burn, _burn_ until a merciful storm swept the flames into steam and a tornado gave the men who ate Madison's meal their due. Arthur hadn't been there, but Alfred could vividly recall screaming curses in his name—until his throat went dry and he was drenched in sweat and rain—demanding why he couldn't just let him go, let him be free.

Maybe Alfred had more resources here in D.C., but he couldn't stand to balance it all. Not this time. The pressure was going to drive him insane, and this alliance was too damn important for his and Arthur's personal issues to ruin it. How he and Churchill had managed so much weight for so long was beyond Alfred, made all the more frightening when he thought about wearing it himself, when he knew Arthur wouldn't help him. He needed to focus on one thing, one command, one army. Anything else would be cheaply done, and the consequences of overlooking would be costly.

"You're enlisting?"

Alfred's wires were strung so high that he shot straight out of the chair and about-faced in a single movement. The doors stood half open, but a man with softly curled hair who could have been Alfred's twin if their births weren't nine months apart blocked the corridor beyond, his suit unwrinkled for the first time in years, as though he were here on special occasion.

Matthieu.

How long had he been standing there? Enough to tell Alfred that he knew this wasn't a pleasant meeting: his eyes were even wider than his round glasses already made them. Why was he here?

On special occasion—the dinner with Louis Adamic and his wife. It was tonight. Alfred had forgotten.

Well, at least he wasn't here to burn down anything.

The thought, pathetic as it was, brought laughter bubbling to Alfred's lips, and then he couldn't stop. Accompanied by tears, his snorts were a depressing sight, especially when he lost his footing and collapsed against the chair arm, but they numbed his psychotic anger enough for him to realize that someone or something above them was giving him the opportunity to see his brother one last time before he left, and he wasn't going to waste it.

"Wow, am I glad to see you," he managed when his howls subsided long enough for him to see Matt through watery eyes. He plucked off his glasses to wipe them, pushing away the memory of nearly doing the same in front of Arthur. He hadn't been certain how or if he would have told Matthieu that he would be gone by the time he came down next. This solved that problem.

Standing, he pushed his glasses back on and turned to Roosevelt and Churchill, the latter still on his feet with a relit cigar between his teeth, the former recovered from the shock of Alfred's attack and playing off the rest with excellent deceptions. He met Alfred's eyes steadily; Alfred tried to do the same.

"I'm enlisting," he declared, in a breath. "And I will not take no for an answer. I'm leaving as soon as my bags are packed, and I will drop off any unfinished work before I leave."

"But—"

"Winston." Roosevelt's gaze rose to the Prime Minister's, holding them for a long, throbbing beat before Churchill dropped back into his upholstered chair and put his head in his hands, muttering along the lines of "I need a bloody nap."

Roosevelt's lips twitched in a thin smile that fell when his gaze returned to Alfred's, the index finger on one of his folded hands ticking seconds.

Alfred forced himself to hold it, pushed the lingering anger down deep enough that he could wear his own mask. It was hard when all he wanted to do was beg to be let go. Even if it meant never returning until Roosevelt was gone, he was convinced this was the right decision if they wanted this alliance to last. Even when he heard his own voice in his head, screaming that he was doing exactly as Arthur would, he held that conviction. Whether it was the right thing for his people…he didn't know, but there was only one way to find out.

"We can manage without you for a time," Roosevelt answered, finally. Alfred restrained the deflating sigh that flooded through his body, shoving his shoulders back. Underneath his composure, Roosevelt didn't seem happy about letting Alfred leave—perhaps because his own sons were off fighting, or because of his breach of obeisance—but after nearly a decade together, he knew his limits. He could not overpower Alfred, no matter how much he wanted to, much less deter him from a decision once his mind (however unstable) was made up. Likewise, Churchill didn't move.

Alfred was all-too-familiar with the ways of moneyed men who liked power, but in that regard the President was different. He wanted to serve, too, and he wanted to serve well.

In that regard, he understood Alfred existed for that very reason.

He executed a small, respectful bow. Better to leave on a good note than to go on with the bad. "Thank you, sir." Without anything else to say, not even goodbye, he about-faced and swept past Matthieu, who stood at the door with a gaping mouth—who caught up with Alfred only after he had retreated into his rooms and was packing his bag.

"So, what, are you off to command an army?" he demanded, shutting the door.

"I don't know." _I just have to get out of here._ He believed it with everything inside him. His nerves were barely letting him stand still, bouncing on his heels, itching to run and keep running until he was too far to feel the innate connection of another personification's presence, until he could no longer feel Arthur's disappointment.

Alfred glanced into the room outside his closet and noticed that his brother's crisp shirt and brown jacket were starting to show signs of wrinkling; he almost felt sorry. It wasn't often that his brother dressed up so heartily, and Alfred could imagine the effort he put into his appearance for tonight.

 _It is pertinent that you appear as the part you are trying to possess. Dress appropriately for your guests, always._ Had Arthur been the one to pass that knowledge on to Matt, too? With Canada establishing political autonomy from Britain, it made sense that he would use that advice, but when was he told? Alfred only remembered advice like that coming after the war, after Matthieu was gone, when he became the problem. The nuisance. The one who needed to be reined in, exorcised from the ungrateful foul fiends who possessed him.

 _Promise me, Alfred._

His heart twisted. He hadn't thought about that day in a long time.

"…can you not know, Al?" Matthieu was saying. Had he said anything before that? Alfred hadn't been listening, but did it matter? Did any of it? Arthur had made it quite clear that—no matter how he dressed—he wasn't responsible enough to be in his position. Thus, it was with reckless vehemence that he shoved unfolded shirts and pants into his duffel. Matthieu was lucky, despite his obvious distrust of Alfred at the moment. "These aren't decisions that you just make on the spot _._ They require careful planning. They have to be thought through—"

 _God, you sound like Arthur._ "That doesn't change the fact that I don't know," he said exasperatedly as he pushed another t-shirt into his duffel bag. The tanned leather was thirty years old and peeling from the straps, but it had lasted through dusty, hot Mexico. It could last through salty seas if he was nice to it, and careful.

Like hell.

He thought about Hap Arnold's visits, his stories about being in the air and the responsibility of knowing where you were going at all times. Flying certainly wasn't easy—Alfred knew that from training in the twenties and thirties—but it had always enticed him, the idea of having wings.

Their clan had been called Hawk. A nickname their mother had given him, one of the few words of his native Massachuset he had retained, meant "winged boy".

Maybe he knew where he was going, after all.

Perhaps realizing that Alfred had stopped listening, Matt huffed and leaned against the wall, looking around. Alfred's rooms were a mess and smelled like it, the bed unmade and his walk-in closet torn apart in his haste to gather what he needed. Paperwork littered the desk in the meager light of the lamp, pages of bills marked and scribbled on and spread in every direction. He shook his head pointlessly, drawing from a quiet strength that Alfred had never been able to understand. "What are you doing, Al? You're needed here. _You_ are our secret weapon, do you know that? No one else has tactical brilliance like you—"

Alfred snorted. "Why does everyone keep saying that? You, Roosevelt, _Churchill_ —"

"Because it's true," said Matthieu firmly, cutting him off before Alfred could finish saying, "you're starting to sound just like him." Reluctantly, he swallowed, stopped, and listened. Something in Matthieu's tone told him that if he didn't, he would pay. "I don't know what led to this, but I'd wager it had something to do with Arthur. Fine. That was bound to happen, but that doesn't mean you have to _leave_. When we figure out how to open a front in France, then you can go off and play hero, but for right now—"

" _Now_ I am sitting here doing nothing, signing paperwork, and living the high life while other men are losing theirs because I'm not there to protect them," Alfred snapped, tossing his shaving soap onto the pile of clothes. He didn't want to have this conversation anymore, for every second he wasted— _Tick…tick—_ "Dammit!" Seizing the small clock on the side table, he threw it at the wall, feeling a sick sort of satisfaction to see it dent the plaster and shatter into scrap metal on the carpet. He'd clean that up and bring it with him to the recruitment office to donate.

Matthieu, however, looked more than a little wary that his brother had given in to anger so quickly. Eyeing the lonesome screws, ceramic, and metal plates, he stepped forward and yanked the bag off the bed.

Alfred sighed, his Valet razor landing on the duvet instead. How far was his brother willing to go before he became dangerous? "Matt—"

"No." To punctuate his declaration, he dropped the bag on the floor and shoved it under the bed. "You're not going."

"I am."

"No, you're not."

"Do we have to argue about this right now?"

"Yes, because you'll leave otherwise!"

"That's exactly what I want! Matt—" He nearly growled as he ran a hand over his face. Exhaustion was creeping in, reminding him why he didn't like being angry. "You didn't see the look on his face, all right? You didn't sit there and watch him tell you your apology meant nothing when it took everything in me to say those words." His voice broke, and he didn't care. Matt was the one person he knew would not use that weakness against him.

Stationed on either side of the bed, the two brothers stood, glaring, at one another, until Alfred's statement sunk in, and then Matthieu's jaw fell slack. Again.

"You…you apologized?"

Alfred jerked a terse nod. "And he wouldn't take it." Sniffing, he bent down to hide the tears that burned his eyes and reached under the mattress for the strap. It took some maneuvering and frustrated grunting, but he finagled the duffel out the other end and replaced it on the bed, stuffing his razor inside. While Matthieu continued to grapple with the uncharacteristic concept of Alfred apologizing, he ran a quick mental checklist— _clothes, underwear, shoes, toiletries…_

Papers. Where were his papers? He shuffled through his equally messy desk drawers for them. "I have to go, Matt. After what happened, there's no way we can work together—not even for the two days left that Churchill's here." He shut the last drawer, fruitless, and his shoulders slumped as he rose from a crouch, sorting through other logical places they could be. "Please understand, because I've already shredded my relationship with Roosevelt, and I don't want to leave on bad terms with you, either."

Matthieu worried his lip, torn. Alfred hated seeing him upset like this—he hated being the reason—but he couldn't move to unpack. He couldn't stop now, lest he never start again. He couldn't think, lest he think too much—about Arthur's face, his father's scathing voice…

No trust, whatsoever. No faith or forgiveness. It hurt so much he couldn't breathe, and there was no possible way he could go into the Red Room tonight, see Arthur—talk with him—and pretend everything was fine. Nothing was, and—

And where the hell were his military records and passports?

Alfred cursed inwardly. One would think he would have learned something after 165 years of independence, such as the fact that his records—every single painstakingly handwritten and typewritten report—were kept with the Commander-in-Chief at all times until necessity prompted their use. It was all part of the checks and balances system.

Thus, they were in Roosevelt's desk. He had known it, too, known that Alfred would have to swallow his pride long enough to return and retrieve them.

Alfred cursed again, outwardly this time, and pinched his brow. Never before had Roosevelt's elusiveness irritated him so thoroughly.

"What?" Matthieu asked.

"Nothing," his brother sighed, dropping his hand. "Just realized I forgot something." He didn't expect to, but he checked his pockets in the vain hope that his records might magically be there. It was then, when his fingers grazed the well-creased census counts, that he realized he was missing something else.

Ludwig.

Who would tell him he was gone? He couldn't send him a letter, and Alfred couldn't bear the thought of leaving him to stand out there alone, in the cold, constantly worried about being caught, and never show up. Ludwig was more than capable of handling himself _should_ he be caught, but Alfred wasn't willing to take the risk.

The question remained: who was willing to take his place?

His gaze landed on Matthieu, watching him carefully.

He was the only option. The only one Alfred trusted to be invisible enough not to get him caught.

"Matt, I know you can keep a secret, but can you do me a favor?"

He nodded without hesitation, a thin smile turning his lips. "If I can't dissuade you, then I don't think I have a choice. What do you need me to do?"

* * *

As soon as the deadbolt clicked into place, Arthur slumped against the door and massaged the ache in his side that had plagued him all throughout dinner. Burma. He could feel it. She was falling—or would be, soon.

 _Keep going._ He wasn't certain whether he was speaking to himself or to her, but it worked. He pushed himself upright, wincing, and moved on unsteady legs to the window, throwing aside the blackout curtains to shove it open. Bitter winds and cold rain pushed their way inside, rumbling with thunder. Arthur basked in it for a moment, breathing in the frigid air before pulling his cigarette case from the desk. His hands were back to shaking after the shock of the afternoon. Everything ached, to make matters lovelier still, and he could barely think for his exhaustion. As he rested against the sill, he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so bone-weary, but sleep, he knew, wouldn't come easily. It never did anymore, nor would it tonight.

The boy was gone. Enlisted, according to the President and Prime Minister, and Matthieu had seen him off, leaving Arthur the ignorant fool at dinner, wondering reluctantly why he wasn't there, trapped in brittle politeness with him, until Adamic, with all his hemmed-in distrust of the Empire, left with his wife and Mrs. Roosevelt for a concert.

 _I'm sorry,_ Matthieu had said, when his initial outburst smoothed into irritation.

 _I'm sorry._

Arthur's lip curled of its own volition, flicking the ashes with such vehement force into the rain that he nearly tore the stick in two. Did he really think two simple words would make him feel better about the situation? That leaving would fix 160 years of watching him grow up from a distance, forced to arm's length because he'd been _protective_ of his colonies, tried to restore order when Alfred's people brought it to chaos? What, was his plan to _die_ on the field like a martyr? Wouldn't _that_ prove to Arthur just how sorry he was…

What a vain fool. A child in a man's body couldn't shoot a gun or fly a plane any better than a dog could—not even ones that lived forever. They learned even slower, at that rate.

Arthur sighed, sagging against the window frame. "He's not your problem anymore," he muttered, his breath fogging the glass. "Neither of them." Not Alfred, nor Matthieu, but at least the latter had the decency to be civil about his independence. Matthieu hadn't even wanted it at first, until Arthur's government decided he was a liability and pushed him towards it, but even amid sporadic violence and vociferous discontent some of his territories still said no.

Independence. The word tasted like acid on his tongue. Hearing it from Alfred wasn't anything new; he was used to it from those long ago days when he had screamed for restitution, but he couldn't say the word himself. To him, it was autonomy, or self-government, but _never_ in…inde…

The glass felt cool against his forehead, but it didn't soothe his nerves. Nor was the nicotine, but nothing could be done about that. A thin trail of smoke slipped past his lips as he looked down at the cig between his fingers, filling his nose with an acrid, burning-paper smell and his eyes with an ashen fog that reminded him of the The Great Fire, burning, raging for three days, eviscerating the ancient city. At first, Arthur had been too feverish and dazed to truly register the devastation, but when it settled in—oh, how the ash settled. Everything that Elizabeth and her ancestors had built…everything that Arthur had lived in and through, was gone.

All because of a hot summer and a baker on Pudding Lane.

Arthur let the grudge go when he realized that the fire was the watershed into a new era of architecture and naval dominance, but as he watched the embers flare in his dark room, in the dark night, he couldn't help but wonder what life would be like without all this turmoil—all the wars, the stresses of politics and diplomacy, the infighting. For as long as he'd been in contact with Europe and the world outside his tiny island, it had been his life—the reason he started smoking when tobacco first became available, and why by this point it was undoubtedly a crutch. His lungs must have been pitch black by now, marking it a miracle that he could still breathe—a miracle that mortals would kill to have.

What would life be like without it? Any of it? What if…what if he was mortal? Could that happen?

It was a seductive thought, one that he was too drained not to fall into, although he knew full well how terrible an idea it was. He felt weak—all the time—and he couldn't help but assign the sensation to the fact that he had known what it was like to be powerful once. Contrary to what he had told Churchill on the _Prince of Wales,_ he was, in fact, quickly becoming a once-was. Churchill knew that; Arthur had only to accept it, and yet…

Would it be different if he had never _been_ an empire? What would life have been if he hadn't lured Spain into a trap, hadn't used Antonio's love against him, left his colonies alone, never colonized the New World…

Never met Alfred?

 _You wouldn't have fought back if it didn't matter._ Did it? What if he had given ind…independence freely? Would their relationship be different, or was it already destroyed beyond repair?

"Arthur?"

Arthur had lied when he said he'd moved on. The truth was, he'd never stopped thinking about it.

"Arthur, are you all right?"

He always knew, eventually, when he was lying to himself, and—to tell the truth—not even late nights in the tunnels and bomb shelters, shivering against the cold stone and wracking pain, had left him in as much shock as their row had today.

And again, he wondered, _what if…?_

A hand brushed his shoulder lightly, but Arthur reacted strongly, slamming his other shoulder into the window frame. Wincing, he dug his fingers around it and snapped, "You ought to know better than to sneak up on me like that! How did you get in here, anyhow? I locked the door."

Looking distraught, and then sheepish, Matthieu pulled a small, compact knife from his inner coat pocket, showing him one of several variegated blades folded inside the handle. "Picked the lock."

Arthur stared, first at the knife, then at him, speechless.

Matthieu shrugged tensely, replacing the tool in the secrecy of his pocket. "You didn't answer my knock, and I wanted to see if you were all right after—"

"After you told me that git had gone and thrown himself at the front lines—yes, I know," said Arthur testily, relighting his burned-out cigarette with disgruntled ceremony. "Waltzing with two anti-imperialists after I've had it out with a boy who's pushed me to my limits more times than I can count makes me rather…unforgiving. I'm sorry if my want for conversation at dinner was disquieting to you." He winced. Those two words, again. Even said with scathing sarcasm, they touched a nerve.

Worse, as though Fate wanted to laugh at him some more, Matthieu even looked like his brother for a moment, his honey hair becoming a burnished wheat and his eyes flashing in the feeble light of the lamp. Arthur hadn't even seen him turn it on, and he'd been standing right there.

Unsettled, he turned towards the dark grounds and took a grateful, soulfully-addicted drag, rubbing his offended shoulder. He had probably given himself one lovely bruise. "I'm fine, Matthieu."

His subject only in status came up beside him, leaning on the sill. "Like that's going to fool anyone, Arthur. I was right in front of you, saying your name, and you still didn't respond."

"Shut it."

He chuckled, plucking the smoke straight out of Arthur's fingers to take a drag himself. Arthur was about to protest when—so quietly he almost didn't hear above the wind—Matthieu said, "It's okay to be scared for him. I won't tell."

Arthur didn't doubt that. Who knew how many of Alfred's secrets he had kept over the years, but he didn't care for the assumption being made. His eyes narrowed. "What makes you think I'm afraid?"

With a crooked grin that betrayed even more his blood relation to Alfred, Matthieu handed back the cig and said simply, "Your reaction."

Arthur considered denying it, but he decided not to waste his breath. With only two more days left in the realm of his greatest failure, two days without the engrossing presence of the boy he'd christened and raised, they both knew Matthieu would only be playing at compliance and agreement, regardless of what his protector thought.

With his back to the room, and with any luck, Arthur's next words were lost to the sweeping wind. "He can stay wherever he's going, for all I care. Perhaps he'll be a better flier than he ever was a soldier."

The thunder rumbled.

 _BOOM._

"Blow winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage, _blow!"_

Several weeks later, the wind was still cracking, rattling the windows of the Strand and King Lear's ragged robes. In fact, they were about to blow them off, exposing the audience to far worse things than artificial rain, thunder, and selfish children.

At least, that was Française's opinion, and Arthur couldn't entirely disagree. But he was being harsh. Truly, it was a well-thought-out production given the limitations forced upon it, and Will likely would have been proud in spite of that, but he was having a hard time enjoying it. He felt compressed into his seat—coiled, ready to spring into a tempest of rage not unlike Don Wolfit on the stage in front of him. It wasn't his fault, he should like to think; he was here on Churchill's orders—a prescribed "pithy break," whatever that meant—and had been forced to bring Française with him, which meant he was under no compulsion to have fun, although he knew Churchill would be unsatisfied if he didn't. However, Arthur was not in a mood to care. At what point had _King Lear_ become a _fun_ play anyhow, much less with Française on his left seducing his date into giggles with disdainful comments about the production every five minutes?

 _If your preferred pastime is to suffer,_ Arthur supposed with a private grin as he shifted on the worn upholstery. His forearms dug into his abdomen, rubbing against the bones of his ribcage, withering his smirk and making him cringe. Recent weeks had brought new revelations that made him feel gaunt-faced and yellow-skinned again; he'd only barely been eating since their return, and what he did eat was considerably less than he had in Washington, reframing himself with the starved look of one who's spent years on the streets in spite of his fine, embroidered attire—the cloth of the wealthy, the aristocratic. Ironically, it made him feel as if he truly were England—in the shoes of both classes, carrying on because he had to. It was strange, too, because he had never _not_ felt like England, either.

"I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness. I never gave you kingdom, called you children…" breathed the king in desperate mania.

"It would be a shame if he did," Française whispered. "Nature could not stand having to pay him homage. Look at him! Do you see how unfashionably he is dressed? His floral subjects would die at the sight. _I_ , on the other hand…"

 _Ugh_. Arthur grimaced, his lip curling with more than a little disdain, but when he looked over at them—at the young woman in a modest belted dress restraining her laughter behind a gloved hand—any petty anger he felt towards Française for mocking his literature was trampled by her twinkling eyes. If she could find happiness in such stormy times, then perhaps what Française was doing wasn't so unbearable.

He couldn't remember the last time he had laughed—truly—and gave up on the endeavor when he realized he would have to think about it. It wasn't worth the effort for a silly memory when there were more pressing things to focus on. Life with Churchill at No. 10 had since become nothing but bad news and fruitless attempts to save their men and equipment that produced more snarling and fist-thumping than results.

Singapore, his greatest stronghold, had fallen. His troops were in constant retreat—not even fighting—and the losses filtering in through transmissions only confirmed how dire the situation there was, merely amassing into heaps and piles instead of gaining something.

Anything. Nothing.

Here, sitting in this theater, Arthur was nothing, reduced to this slip of a man because the bitter irony was, after all this time, that the empire on which the sun never set did not have enough strength or numbers to so much as even out the ruthless machine Japan had fostered and so carefully twisted into his desired shape.

He knew he was starving, but what was he starving _for?_ Victory, he'd thought, but Arthur wasn't certain anymore. This war was no longer about power or strength or who had the better ideals, the wiser government. The lines were blurred, good and bad, black and white mashed together into something less discernable, less imaginable, less… Less.

"Man's nature cannot carry the th' affliction nor the fear." Kent looked believably scared as he said it, huddling in his Anglo-Saxon tweed as the storm he so feared cracked over his head. Arthur's lips turned up wearily. He understood that.

He…was afraid, too.

What about Australia, or India? Were they afraid, sitting in wait on their borders while Arthur lived balefully thousands of miles away? Even now, across the pond, Roosevelt wouldn't pipe down about autonomy for India. He had nearly driven Arthur out of the room a second time in Washington. What if he was right? Was Arthur repeating his mistakes with Alfred by holding them under his wing, dragging them into his wars simply because they were his property?

 _People change._ Yes, they do—they can, and Arthur had been eating his words this past month. He did his best not to think about the argument, but during those few lonesome minutes captured in the night when he couldn't stop it, Arthur began to wonder if his perception of Alfred was a little _too_ stagnant. He hadn't the slightest idea how many times he had used the word _naïve_ to describe him. He had thought it, muttered it under his breath, spoken it in the company of others. He had shouted it at him that afternoon, inconsiderate of anyone but himself and how he ached…

That day, Japan's raids had been incessant and omnifarious, and all he'd wanted was to stay off his feet on the off-chance a raid was bad enough for him to lose his stomach. But then Alfred had seen what the raids did to him, given him news—news he still didn't want to believe, news that scared him more than he had any right to be in his position—and it, and Germany, and the fact that Alfred had been _right there_ had angered him, and so he lashed out…as always.

"The younger rises when the old doth fall." Edmund's leer made his hands curl, paper-thin skin stretching across bone as the lights darkened for the next scene.

This war wasn't about their feud, but Alfred made it so when he linked his cooperation with Ludwig to their own history. He _forced_ the connection, thereby forcing a confrontation—just as he had in New York, dammit.

Were Arthur's late-night musings wrong?

Had he changed at all?

He squeezed his eyes shut as the lights came back on, trying to tune out the stream of his sorrows. This was turning into a bloody pity pit; he needed to get out. Focus on the play so he wouldn't be lying completely when he said it had been relaxing. The row had left him more shell-shocked than shaken, sure, but that was not an excuse to incur the wrath of the likes of China or Russia for neglecting the present, given that what he had mistakenly perceived as leftover resentment for the Opium Wars at the signing had actually been fury for letting Hong Kong fall into Japanese hands on Christmas—conveyed quite clearly through the seldom but vitriolic glances he had offered.

Dwelling on the past was not an option in this war. Japan had Hong Kong now, and he must have been terrified, but what was Arthur supposed to do? March back in? For seventeen months he had just barely managed to tackle Germany and his power-intoxicated allies on his own, and it was with largely pitiful results. If he— _he_ —couldn't stand up to Japan or Germany, what hope did the ordinary Aussie or Indian have?

 _You know what._

Exactly.

Flimsy and delicate as it was, this alliance was important. For Britain, for Churchill, and perhaps even Europe. None of it changed the fact that whenever he thought of Alfred, of how desperately he had searched those weeks in Washington for any kind of approval from him, he wanted to scream curses and refusals. _They're putting their hopes on a child._

 _Liar._ The single word, spoken with such animal hunger, filled Arthur with a frozen dread. In his position, would Alfred simply do what was necessary for Arthur's benefit, ignoring everything else that mattered? No—if that were true, he wouldn't have enlisted. He would have wanted to see his reaction and muck up their alliance with his dated, intrinsic desires. Some things never change, despite how people do, and although Arthur should have been furious that Alfred had the last word by leaving, he…

"Out, treacherous villain! Thou call'st on him that hates thee."

Arthur blinked out of his trance. Gloucaster had already been blinded? How long had he been in his head?

Did it matter? He wasn't accomplishing anything but monumental self-pity by sitting here, and from the way Française's date was shaking—Française himself struggled between a smirk and a grimace as the English duke was led off stage, his eyes mere pockets of bloody flesh—he guessed he'd been out of it long enough for Française to say something nasty enough that Arthur's lack of response was astonishing.

He stared at them for a long moment. Then, he rose from his seat and left. Française probably wanted to snog the woman, and that was fine, so long as he wasn't around to see it. If Arthur did only one useful thing tonight, let it be giving them privacy.

His intentions would have been timely if his body hadn't betrayed him. Arthur had little desire to witness Gloucaster's apology and Edgar's near-immediate forgiveness, but it was a slow trek up the aisle inside a half-full theater, and by the time he reached the door, act four was under way.

The last words he heard were Gloucaster's:

"O dear son Edgar,  
The food of thy abusèd father's wrath,  
Might I but live to see thee in my touch,  
I'd say I had eyes again."

By the time the door shut him into the rain, Arthur was aware of two fundamental truths. First, the son forgave him because the father suffered worse. Second, the theater patrons tried to hide it, but they couldn't focus on the play any better than he could; the war was too consuming. It never quite left.

Those truths were why—in retrospect, regardless of all his rancor—Arthur was glad that the boy…the young man…was out of Washington.

Why he couldn't hate him for doing the right thing, for once.

Heaving a sigh through his nose, Arthur tucked his hands in his coat pockets and started aimlessly down Aldwych, heedless of the stormy weather marring his carefully perpetuated appearance. Bad things always seemed to happen to him in the rain, but he wasn't quite ready to return home. The sensation of the cold drops in his hair were like fingers running through his scalp, soothing.

Unfortunately, he didn't get to enjoy it for very long before Bad Thing Number One came sprinting for him. " _Angleterre!"_

Hang on, was Française actually _running?_ Arthur ignored his shouts and kept walking, letting him catch up on his own. A part of him wanted to let Française discover the limitations and fragility of his own divided body. It seemed a fair exchange for his unceasing flippancy and careless narcissism.

His hand caught him on the shoulder, forcing him to stop—in the epicenter of a puddle. Arthur slid out of the rippling water, cursing freely. Now he didn't have a choice but to go home. The leather would mildew if he didn't dry them off quickly.

"What?" he snapped, before Française could fill him in. "Aren't you supposed to be back there snogging, Frog?"

Française lifted one plucked eyebrow, the umbrella over his head casting unpleasant shadows over his face. Good. Anything that toned down the angular handsomeness he so loved to boast about was heaven-sent peace. "Isobel? She is lovely, but no—that will come later." He grinned far too knowledgably for Arthur's tastes. He rolled his eyes, merely adding fuel to Française's smirk. "Why did you leave?"

"Why do you care?" he shot back.

Française only shrugged. "I do not think you want me to tell _le Premier ministre_ about you leaving early, _non_?"

Arthur's mouth twisted in an ugly scowl, the tips of his ears growing hot. He didn't care. Let Française make fun of it all he wanted. He would _not_ be blackmailed on his own land by a _Frenchman_.

As much as he would have liked to unleash his pent-up anger by starting another row in the street, he didn't have the energy, nor did he think it was worth it. A fight would only make Française more eager to piss him off for information, and thenhe'd tell Churchill about his exploits and poor decisions.

Thus, it was in a typical British high-handed fashion that he spun on his heel and snarled over his shoulder, "Sod off."

There was a moment, after he walked on, that he truly thought he would get away, but then Française came round and planted himself directly in his path, giving him no time to put on the brakes before he slammed straight into his chest.

Arthur shoved him off as quickly as if they had only bounced against each other, yanking his hand back even faster. "I'm not in the mood to be tested tonight, France—"

"I see that." Spoken with uncharacteristic seriousness. Even worse, Française was holding the umbrella over _his_ head rather than his own, letting his prized locks grow damp and flat. That was new, and it made him wary. These days, he never subjected himself to the elements if he could help it.

Under that observation, he did the one thing he knew best: lashed out. "Then why do you _insist_ on bothering me?" Stepping out of the umbrella's range, he pushed past him. "I gave you the privacy to do whatever you ruddy well want in that theatre—"

"Will you stop with this high-and-mighty _merde_?" Française trilled, matching Arthur's quick strides with long ones. "Honestly, _Angleterre,_ you are acting like a petulant child."

Arthur froze mid-stride, Française pausing a foot ahead of him. He became acutely aware of the rain running through his scalp, soothing just the way his mother used to, when he was young and sheltered on his tiny island. Innocent, naïve. A child.

 _One hundred sixty years later and you still act like a child._

And, something else: _Anyone could see that you're not fit for the responsibility of a nation._

Good God. Arthur's eyes shut briefly. He was worse than Alfred.

And he loathed Française for making him realize it.

Steeling himself, he spat, "High-handed child or not, at least I still have honorable men in the field and a leader to turn to. You have nothing but your pride and the _merde_ you dropped on my doorstep—a pathetic excuse for a government and weak sensationalism. Now, if you'll excuse me, twit, I'm going to go home. Take your time coming back." He paused a moment to relish the electric shock on Française's face before moving to make good on his word in his ruined shoes. His hands were curled so tightly inside his pockets that he felt the skin break, and thin blood slid down his fingers.

Française's body was nowhere as withered—not sinew and bone, as his was. It was still inexplicably strong, chest broad and hips narrow. Arthur only knew that from the countless times he'd seen Française go into the kitchen without a shirt—or pants, for that matter—and it disgusted him.

Because of its strength over his, however, he should have seen it coming.

Française grabbed his arm, meaning only to pull him back for a retort. But Arthur's body was too light. To him, it was a yank, and Arthur over-balanced, falling on his back to the hard concrete.

Every last particle of air fled him. Black night arrested his vision for one long, horrifying moment, and he swore he heard a crack from somewhere inside him—a bone or, heaven forbid, his brain stem—no, no…they were footsteps.

"Mr. Bonnefoy, I wondered where—oh, what happened?"

Française's date. Her plain, pretty face shot into view, as he laughed, the sound too high and false to be genuinely humored by Arthur's fall.

"A bit of an accident—nothing to worry about. These old roads are quite slick, _non?"_ His charming smile soon joined hers in his sight, and then his hands were digging between his shoulder blades, shoving Arthur to his feet and pressing him against his side. While he prattled excuses, Arthur tried to breathe, though—between Française's natural body odor and the cologne he used to mask it—he thought he was going to be sick.

"Oh, well I'm glad you're all right," said the woman, glancing uncertainly between the two "friends". Française's expression must have betrayed something different, however, because a pout that may have been intended as a scowl turned down her red lips.

The heat extended to Arthur's cheeks—embarrassed, angry, and self-aware. He knew that—when he wasn't playing the part his status required—he could be too abrasive for women's tastes. That had never bothered him before, but something about the way she was looking at him sent shame shuddering through his offended spine, crawling through the shocked nerves. Something about the fact that it was one of his own citizens looking down on him.

Maybe Française sensed it, or maybe he thought that _she_ thought they were in a relationship, because he laughed. "You are funny, _mon cher,_ but I simply wondered where _mon ami_ ran off to. Isn't that right, _Angl—_ Artur?" He beamed, clapping his greatest enemy on the back as if they had been friends for mortal years.

Arthur's labored breath hitched. He stiffened. His expression pinched, completely out of his control, and the humor slid off Française's face faster than he could think to rectify it.

For his part, Arthur wasn't even trying anymore. He was aware of Française charming the girl into returning to the theater, aware of his hand around Arthur's arm as he dragged him into the nearest alley, but most of him was frozen, breathless, focused on his throbbing back.

They had centuries of scars on their bodies attesting to how much they had hurt one another, but never had a gentle clap on the back hurt before.

It was the fall. It had to be. How could he be so vulnerable, so—so _weak_ otherwise?

No. He wouldn't believe it. He was not weak _._

Leaning Arthur against the grimy brick in the alley, Française said urgently, "Where is it this time? Singapore? India?"

"No, it's—it's nothing," he forced out, recovering enough sense to school his expression into its characteristic froideur and twist his neck until it cricked. He was not weak. He was not weak. He wanted to go home, peel his clothes off and check his back in the mirror. See the damage and the bruises both hits left, but no. He wouldn't.

He. Was not. _Weak._

"I do not believe you." Française's eyes searched his face, dubious.

Arthur stared back, unflinching. "You don't have to. Go back to the play, France. Enjoy yourself. I'll be fine." _Liar._

 _Don't you start._

Française sighed, covering his face with one long-fingered hand. " _Mon Dieu, Angleterre._ I… I do not know what to say. You will not tell me what happened in _l'Amérique_ , and you have grown so weak—"

"I am not _weak!"_ Arthur screamed—to Française as he flinched back, to America, to the Pacific. To the skies and to his mother above him as she dropped tears on his head. When she lived, the only things she wanted for him was to be happy and safe. Since she died, he had never been either.

But he had come a long way from those days, old enough now to realize that war and peace were not so different. Their lines blurred. War fostered community, pride, nationalism. Peace proposed hatred. However trivial, human beings bored quickly, and Arthur learnt long ago that they were _always_ searching for something fun to do.

Bad things always seemed to happen to him in the rain, but giving in to weakness and stardust hopes was not one of them.

Peace be damned. This was war.

No one escaped without suffering.

* * *

Footnotes (chronological by appearance in sections):

 **Alfred's Scene:  
** **1\. Churchill:** Even though "Huns" is a World War I term, Churchill seemed to use it often in reference to Hitler and the Nazis. Knowing that in World War I he was Secretary of the Navy and, later, fought in the trenches as a battalion commander, it was probably habit.

 **2\. Children:** Both FDR and Churchill had several children who fought in the war, and regardless of what their jobs demanded of them, they were concerned for them and desperate for news, always:  
FDR: sons James, Elliot, John, and Franklin Jr.  
Churchill: son Randolph, daughters Diana, Sarah, and Mary

 **3\. Washington:** It is true that Washington wasn't too keen on the American militias when he first took command—he was rather disgusted, actually, because they reminded him of the men he led and lost control of in his first battle—and it is also true that, in his earlier years with the British military, all he wanted was a British officer's commission. Fortunately for the burgeoning United States, they never gave him one, but he used the tactics and disciplinary techniques he learned in the British army—things from lashings to proper military attire—to whip the Continental Army into shape. (So…when Alfred mentioned "taking countless strategies" in chapter four, I would say that one that was forced upon him.)

 **4\. War of 1812:** I don't know how reluctant James Madison was to leave the White House, but on 24 August 1814, British forces—not Canadian, contrary to popular belief— _did_ burn down the Capitol building and tried to incinerate the White House, among other buildings, after first eating the President's meal. Maybe it wasn't intentional, maybe they were just starving and taking advantage of the opportunity, but it certainly adds insult to injury. Well done, Britain. Regardless, after the storm on the twenty-fifth, Congressmen, the President and staff weren't able to return until September, presumably because of occupation.

 **5\. Louis Adamic** was the Slovenian author of _Two-Way Passage,_ a book arguing that "Americans who had come from the devastated countries of Europe should return after the war to help build democratic institutions" (Meacham 161). It was, however, hostile to Churchill and the British Empire—to the point where Churchill sued him for libel in 1946 and won—but Eleanor Roosevelt invited them to dinner nonetheless. Needless to say, neither Churchill nor FDR were particularly happy until they left.

 **6\. A French Front:** According to _Franklin and Winston_ , of the forty-five months between Pearl Harbor and V-J Day, twenty-four of them were spent debating the opening of a Western European front. Stalin was desperate for them to, and FDR knew and acknowledged that by advocating an invasion date on 1 April 1943, but some say Churchill's reluctance (for several reasons) was what started the Cold War rather than the race to Berlin or scrabbling for the atom bomb.

 **7\. Matthieu:** The Battle of the Plains of Abraham, AKA the Battle of Quebec, took place on the morning of 14 September 1759. This is the same battle depicted in season 6 of _Hetalia_ , where France surrenders after half an hour. (For the record, it was more like fifteen minutes.) However, while Canada is depicted as being separate from Alfred, meeting France first and going to live with England later, that does not fit the headcanon I established earlier about personifications being born from the womb, nor the raid Alfred describes to Roosevelt. _Hetalia's_ depiction is historically accurate, and I like it, but I disagree with them being separated at birth. In these stories, Matthieu will ultimately be raised by France following the Seven Years' War, with some occasional governmental intervention by Arthur (who, let's face it, was too busy keeping America at bay to have much time for Matthieu).

Section Sources:  
"10 Things You May Not Know About the War of 1812" – Christopher Klein, the History Channel  
 _The American Revolution: What Really Happened,_ by Alan Axelrod  
 _Bunker Hill,_ by Nathaniel Philbrick  
 _Franklin and Winston  
_ _The World Wars_ , a History Channel documentary mini series

 **Arthur's Scene:  
** 1\. It may seem strange for there to be blackout curtains in Washington, D.C., but there were; they were put up quickly after Pearl Harbor. Other parts of the country also instituted blackouts, mostly due to wild rumors about Japanese raids and German air attacks.

 **2\. Matthieu (again):** In the 1830s, there was a movement throughout Canadian territories "to reform political institutions to better reflect popular will" (Nelles, 100). The argument was different in every territory, but the idea was the same: populism and self-government— _not_ , however, independence. They simply wanted reform. Nonetheless, in the 1840s, a policy called "Little Englandism"- isolationism and economic self-interest, basically - regarded the Canadian territories as "considerable liabilities" (117). Thus, in 1867, Confederation happened, uniting the Canada we know and love today—with the exception of Newfoundland and Prince Edward Island. Oh, and Vancouver Island and British Colombia were still British... and the Northwest Territories and Rupert's Land (spread over most of the western interior) didn't have formal government, being owned by the Hudson's Bay Company, so… Four provinces existed at the time of Confederation.

 **3\. Great Fire of London:** At two a.m. on Sunday, 2 September 1666, tar barrels exploded in the basement of Thomas Farynor's bakery, and the debris flew into the stables of the inn next door, igniting (pun intended) what has since become the Great Fire of London. When all was said and done and the flames put out, 13,200 homes, 87 churches (including the original St. Paul's), 44 merchant guild halls, the City's Guildhall, Exchange, Custom House, and Bridewell Prison had been burned. 100,000 were left homeless and—ultimately, because there was no insurance—destitute.

 **4\. Antonio, Spain, and England:** "Leaving his colonies alone" refers to Elizabeth I's "gentlemen adventurers" who had royal permission to plunder the Spanish colonies in the New World, bringing back riches to stock the English treasury with. Spain was targeted largely because Spain's king, Philip II, was largely responsible for bankrupting England in the first place through his marriage to Queen Mary. As for the "using Spain's love against him"—well…we'll get to that later.

5\. The fact that Arthur is questioning the past is a _really bad sign_. Perhaps the number one rule a personification learns about life: Don't question the past or wish things could have been different. They only end up going in spirals.

6\. Although Swiss Army knives have been around since the parent company, Victorinox, started in 1884, the term "Swiss Army knife" wasn't coined until after World War II by American soldiers who had trouble pronouncing the German _Offiziersmesser_ (Translation: "Officer's knife"), and if I know a word didn't exist at the time I'm writing, then I don't want to use it _._ Technically, the knife wasn't popular enough by this point for Matthieu to really have one unless he traveled _to_ Switzerland, but who knows what he does in his spare time.

 **7\. Don Wolfit** was a British actor-manager renowned for his abridged wartime productions of Shakespeare's plays—particularly _King Lear._ In January 1942, he put on _Richard III_ at the Strand Theatre in London (now called the Novello Theatre). I have not read _Richard III_ , but _King Lear_ (which, although sources I found debate, was most definitely put on in 1944) fit with the meat and intensity of this chapter, so this is another small liberty I took.

 _A Note about King Lear:_ This chapter was framed around this play. If you've read it, great; if not: if one word could be used to describe this play, it would be _suffering._ Every character in this play suffers; there's very little comic relief. Motifs I noticed while reading all have a certain role, among them clothes (one's vices and wealth), nature (human and Mother, what's natural and unnatural by the standards of "civilized" human society—i.e. want for greed), stormy weather (Lear's mind and emotions), and shame (fear of or actually being ostracized or outcast for behavior). Hopefully these showed through a little in the chapter. Every quote used (including the header) was carefully chosen from Act 3, scenes 2, 3, 7, and Act 4, scene 1. All of them bear relevance to Alfred, Arthur or both.

Likewise, when Arthur says "want for conversation" in the first part of his scene, it refers to the meaning as it was known in Shakespeare's time: "lack".  
And in the opening quote, "Albion" is the oldest known name for England (originally, it referred to Britain as a whole but was eventually separated when modern Scotland became "Alba").

8\. **France:** FDR did something similar to France's play commentary while receiving lines as president. I don't think it was disdainful, but it was definitely humorous, and I couldn't resist, because it seems like exactly the kind of thing France would do.  
Secondly, "Artur" is the old Welsh/Celtic name that became "Arthur", meaning "bear-like". Because France uses Arthur's human name so little, I imagine he might forget the modern Anglicized version.

 **9\. Singapore,** Malaya's capital and "Britain's prize in the Pacific" fell on 15 February 1942 (Meacham 170). It was the biggest and most humiliating loss of the war, taking 138,000 troops from the Commonwealth. The man in charge of commanding Malaya, Lieutenant-General Arthur Percival, signed the ceasefire in a Japanese Ford Motor Factory lunchroom packed with journalists and spent the rest of the war as a POW.

10\. Lastly, I apologize if there seems to be a lot of smoking in this story; it's more for a cultural effect than any personal affiliation—not to mention that Churchill was _definitely_ a chain smoker and FDR was kinda-sorta. If it bothers or annoys you, there will—hopefully—be times in the future when it is not so prevalent.

Section Sources:  
 _1\. ALHC  
_ 2\. "Donald Wolfit", Wikipedia (I know. For general purposes it's not bad though).  
 _3\. Franklin and Winston  
_ _4\. Great Tales from English History,_ by Robert Lacey  
 _5\. London at War,_ by Philip Ziegler  
 _6\. The Pirate Queen,_ by Susan Ronald  
 _7\. A Short History of England_ , by Edward P. Cheyney  
8\. "Swiss Army knife", Wikipedia  
 _9\. Unbroken,_ by Laura Hillenbrand  
10\. Victorinox website

"Two fundamental truths" contains an element of the song "Satisfied", written by Lin-Manuel Miranda for _Hamilton: An American Musical._ Giving credit to inspiration where credit is due.

In writing this chapter, I felt some of the anxiety and uncertainty these characters may have felt at this time. It was unsettling, a constant presence, and I couldn't focus on anything, because _I_ didn't know what would happen tomorrow—i.e. the chapter's future. My research is delving into semi-unknown territory. That said, the Air Force lingo and training is far beyond my knowledge in spite of the resources I have available, so I will not spend too much time on Alfred's jaunt with the USAAF. I want the reader to have a basic sense of his adventure, but the specifics will not be detailed extensively. It serves more as a…passage to something else. A couple of things, actually. Stay tuned.


	6. Interim: Desperation

**Interim: Desperation**

There was a new man in the camp. Unlike the other guards, he wore white, seeming for all the world like an angel, here to set them free. The captive watched through sheltered eyelashes as he moved into the compound with swan grace, flanked on both sides by drab-clad camp officials. His gaze swept over the captives, their bent heads and knobbed necks, with lidded eyes; then, he turned and spoke with the camp's commanding officer.

The captive's eyes did not lift from the ground, but his lips did, asking the man beside him if he could hear what they were saying.

Rule number one of the camp: no man talked to another without permission—for as long as the guards were within earshot. Rarely did any man take the risk of being noticed if they could help it, for the punishments were severe, but something called to him. He wanted to know:

Who is this man in white? The hems of his clean trousers did not graze the frosted, lifeless ground. His shoes did not sink into the marsh and were dark enough to make him seem as if he were floating. How could this be, in so dark and oppressive a place? How can he float while the rest of them sink?

He _must_ be an angel.

He heard the captive speak. His head whipped, no longer graceful but sharp and precise, that of a tiger seeking prey. Both captives froze—as well as they could. It was hard when the cold made them shiver uncontrollably inside their thin clothes. Such was the bitter irony of freezing weather and inadequate skin.

The man in white's dark eyes narrowed, and the camp commander asked something in a subdued voice. It unnerved the captive, for he had never heard him speak with such fear or awe.

Even angels have swords of fire.

After a long moment, the man in white faced away once more, and the two men's shoulders slumped ever-so-softly. They exhaled, enough that the mist their hot breath made was a bare strip in the air, gone in a second. The moment they dispersed, the captive heard the other beside him shift, and then a hand bumped his, punching out a short message: _No._

The captive refrained from another exhale. What he wouldn't give for news of the war.

Footsteps approached—light, rather than the stomping boots that crushed the frozen soil into sodden clumps. It tricked the captive into thinking it was one of his own whisper-thin friends, that the guards and this mysterious man in white were gone.

Too late, he saw the polished shoes, the white trousers.

Too late, he lifted his gaze.

Too late, he braced for impact.

In the seconds that ticked his fist swerving down, he saw his eyes. Where nothing or seething rage lived in others', the man in white's were bright, near-golden with conflict and an apology.

The captive had one moment to wonder what it meant before pain exploded across his face, and he saw nothing more.

* * *

Information Source: _Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption,_ by Laura Hillenbrand


	7. Fear and Love

**Fear and Love**

" _It is far safer to be feared than loved"_

\- Niccolò Machiavelli, _The Prince_

 **1 FEBRUARY 1942**

"You're not _accepting_ me? Oh, come on, I've got enough stamina to pilot a plane and you and everyone on this base knows it."

The desk clerk—in training uniform, oddly, rather than civilian attire—wasn't moved, lounging in the chair behind the desk with all the air of a pompous ass who's already gotten what he wished for and couldn't care less about anyone else's dreams. "I'm sorry, sir, but—"

"Don't be sorry, just give me a spot. I have a commercial pilot's license, and I came out here from Washington just to do this. I can't go _back._ The Pr—they're counting on me." Alfred sighed, frustrated with the clerk, the standard-issue telegram on the desk between them and himself for almost slipping and revealing his status. A part of him would have loved to see the clerk's face when he realized who he was begrudgingly dealing with, but being that big and careless of an idiot would earn him condemnation the world over; everyone from Roosevelt to Japan would be lining up to smack him. Humorous though the thought was, the idea of crawling back to Washington to dissolve inside the relative obscurity of bureaucrats and aides made him antsy.

It had been a long two weeks of travel and rigorous testing in Nashville. He was tired, had suffered intense caffeine withdrawal, and finding out that he hadn't failed the tests but had failed the physical made him want to bang his head on the desk counter. It wouldn't be productive, and it would send him packing all the more quickly to Roosevelt-approved command in the Army, but that wasn't what he wanted.

He wanted to fly, and dammit, he was going to, no matter what these Midwestern pansies said.

Wasn't that the heart of the American Dream?

The pansy in question had pressed his lips together with remarkable patience while Alfred made his request (in a kindly manner, he thought), waiting for him to finish before answering flatly, "Your eyesight won't allow the United States Armed Air Forces to admit you. It's protocol that pilots must have twenty-twenty vision."

"And mine's not," Alfred grumbled. He remembered the look the nurse gave him when he couldn't identify where the scale was at first, because he'd tried to go through the physical without his glasses; it was positively resigned. No hope at all. "I know. Look, can I meet with a recruiting officer or—better yet, the base's commanding officer? I can explain the situation to him, because I don't want to hold up the line." He glanced over his shoulder at the line of hopeful cadets and draftees. It had grown since he first stepped up to the desk, going out the enlistment office door, and the boys were anxious and undeniably curious, peering over heads and around bodies to see who was the unfortunate bastard wasting valuable time.

Time. _Tick, tick—_

"Any complaints you have may be written in a letter to the Department of Defense," said the clerk, without moving to retrieve the address that Alfred knew by heart. Smart.

"I never said compl—"

"Cadet!"

The desk clerk shot to attention faster than Alfred would have given him credit for after seeing his sluggishness, fingertips against his temple in the rigid, un-trembling balance akin to the Statue of Liberty. "Sir!"

Alfred turned slowly to see none other than the United States Armed Air Forces General Henry H. Arnold storming up the line of civilians. He knew the voice, but he hadn't been willing to believe it until he saw for himself the omni-present grin and shock of white hair under his flight cap. Hap was supposed to be in Washington, directing air strategies for servicemen stationed or stranded on the other side. What was he doing in the middle of the country?

When that shark-like gaze above that eerie grin razed over Alfred and narrowed, he straightened into a salute. Others in the line behind him followed suit, and soon the whole group was saluting—most of them, Alfred would wager, to a man they had no clue worked with the President and was, in a way, should they not wash out, responsible for their lives—the eagle to their chickadees in a larger game.

"At ease, Jones," he said, with as much amiability as he could muster in his public position. He didn't know that Alfred ranked above him in the Army, but he knew he held power in Roosevelt, and that seemed to be all he needed to know.

"You as well, sir." Feeling the puzzled, confused eyes of every person in line behind him, Alfred gave a tense smile. He didn't know the man well. He'd only arrived as a full-time advisor to Roosevelt in mid-December, with sporadic meetings before that, and so he knew that Hap wouldn't be here unless someone above him ordered it. Someone like the Commander-in-Chief, the last person he wanted interfering and yet was his best hope at this point. "Do I want to know why you're here, Hap?"

The lieutenant general offered him a half-smile and rounded on the desk clerk. "Are you giving him a hard time, cadet? What're you doin' behind the desk anyway? You should be out there flying!"

Admirably, the flight cadet didn't even flinch. "No, sir. I was asked to fill in for the secretary while she took a lunch break, sir."

Hap's eyes narrowed. "By who?"

Here, the cadet hesitated. Swallowed. "Miss Pittman, sir. The secretary."

Snickering erupted behind Alfred. He shot the crowd a steel-eyed look, and it fell obediently silent. These guys may not know what was coming, but Alfred knew, and he wasn't going to let the poor kid be humiliated more than he had to be.

"Oh, well isn't that cute. You're playing the gentleman while everyone else is out on the Pacific fighting tooth and nail to stay alive. This isn't a time for politeness, cadet, now get your lazy ass back out on that field and following orders unless you want me to tell your commanding officer about this disregard of duty!"

"Yes, sir!" The cadet scurried from behind the desk and into the depths of the base's enlistment office, presumably to find a place where he could lay low until Hap was gone.

Alfred shook his head—not for the kid, although Hap was right. He should be following the orders his superiors gave him instead of playing secretary out of what he was sure was a lustful attraction, but… "You're going to give yourself a heart attack one of these days if you keep it up, Hap."

The general gave him a hard look. "Are you standing for idleness? He wasn't doing shit for the cause by sitting here. If he wants a break, he shouldn't have joined in the middle of a damned war. The Army would've been glad to take him, but I won't tolerate lazy incompetence in my Air Forces."

Alfred quirked an eyebrow. "Fair, but 'lazy ass'? I find that not degrading my troops earns better results, _Lieutenant_ General." He couldn't help it. At his elbow, the men who could hear him were sharing disbelieving glances. Alfred could practically hear the thoughts crossing their minds: _Did he really give cheek to a three-star general?_ He, with the smooth skin, the youth and energetic demeanor of a nineteen-year-old, smack-talking an aged, experienced veteran?

Yes, he was. And he would do it again, for, as he told Churchill: he had four hundred years on everyone on this base.

Hap, unfortunately, didn't know that, and he looked ready to burst, but he knew better than to express it in a public setting. Alfred saw the irritating truth in his scowl, the presumption that Roosevelt would hear if Hap treated him poorly. Alfred didn't do anything to correct him. Even if Hap didn't know the true nature of Alfred's being, there was little question that something about his inexplicable authority would slip through—information as crucial and confidential as the question of opening a second front, regardless of how confusing or unbelievable his existence might be to mortals.

The fact was, if mortals knew he couldn't die, there would be a stampede for his blood. For all of their blood, and that fated Elixir of Life which had so haunted European tales and lured men to such horrible deaths would be hunted once more.

"Come with me, smart ass," said Hap sharply, brushing past Alfred in the direction the cadet had fled. "I've got a letter from the Chief for the base commander."

Alfred's jaw dropped—exactly what he feared, and simultaneously what he'd hoped for the second he received the rejection. "But—"

"Don't argue, Jones, and _come on._ "

"What about the desk?"

"What about it? That girl'll be back."

And that was it. Hap started off without waiting for Alfred to follow, leaving no more room to argue.

Alfred had no choice, so he snatched the duffel at his feet and followed, remembering only at the last second to grab the gram off the desk.

Every man—especially those who were immediately in line behind him—stared as he went, but he kept his eyes on the letter, on the words that would have washed him into the Army under any other circumstance. _I regret to inform you that Alfred F. Jones will not be admitted into the United States Armed Air Forces…_

Democracy sounded simple. It wasn't. On its founding, America wasn't, instead a complex hierarchy of representatives representing representatives who, in turn, represented ordinary people. The idea of treating each man equally had always been there, but that wasn't what happened. Alfred would have been blind not to see that he was exhibiting a truth of the nation as he followed the leader of the USAAF into the base commander's office: he wasn't just another face. He was a face that was almost always found beside the President, a face that bore four stars on military records, the highest achievement possible. That gave him an invaluable advantage.

In a different, horribly selfish time, Alfred would've been immeasurably grateful for the wars that had boosted him to the highest grade in the military, but all he felt as he sat in the chair, staring at that telegram as Hap talked, was that pulling rank felt a lot like pulling strings, giving himself a position he didn't earn and didn't deserve.

But he wasn't going to say no. Roosevelt was pulling from the reserves of his power over the military to do this. To reject it would be disrespecting him again, and if he'd forgiven him his senseless fusillade enough to help him, how could he say no and expect their relationship to survive? Not to mention…if he was honest…he _really_ wanted to be up in the air again.

That, Alfred realized, was what had become of the American Dream. He should've known.

He'd read the book a hundred times, after all. It was back at home, lying creased and the pages worn on his bookshelf.

* * *

"For eight years General Washington and his Continental Army were faced continually with formidable odds and recurring defeats. Supplies and equipment were lacking. In a sense, every winter was a Valley Forge. Throughout the Thirteen States there existed fifth columnists, and selfish men, jealous men, fearful men, who proclaimed that Washington's cause was hopeless, that he should ask for a negotiated peace. Washington's conduct in those times has provided the model for all Americans ever since. A moral—a model of moral stamina…"

Someone brought a radio with him when he enlisted, and it was through its static speakers that Alfred heard the Fireside Chat. In the barracks of the AAF base in Nashville, surrounded by the other rapt cadets as he huddled over a map on his bunk, re-familiarizing himself with a world America had spent the past two decades avoiding.

Roosevelt had asked him to pull it out, leading Alfred to wonder if he was trying to leave some sort of hint for him to determine where the war had gone in the past five weeks.

"Look at your map," he instructed now, filling the narrow room full of bunk beds. Everyone in the bunk did, heads bonking. The pungent scent of pomade slid up their nostrils, but they were used to it. By this time, it would ordinarily be lights out, but not even the base commander would deprive them of the President's reassurances and truths.

As if to add credibility to his hope and anxiety, his knees wouldn't stop bouncing, and his toes curled uselessly against the concrete. He wasn't the only one.

"Look at the vast area of China, with its millions of fighting men." China. He'd looked awful on New Year's. Were there new developments there? New invasions? Roosevelt was still giving aide to those millions, right? For a moment—one of the many these past few weeks—Alfred hated that he couldn't ask, that he wasn't right there in the Oval Study as he had always been before, but then he felt the cold ground under his bare feet, smelled the hair gel and body odor and remembered that he had made this choice. Roosevelt had done what he could to get him inside; now he had to prove that his effort wasn't wasted.

"Look at Russia, with its powerful armies and proven military might." Alfred knew Russia had been fighting heavily and relentlessly, but had it begun again? He thought the Nazis had drawn back for the winter. Or did his hint have to do with their might? Without Hitler to keep them occupied and ingrained experience with brutal winters, Russia had plenty of time to rebuild, renovate, and re-plan. Done correctly, and with the right tools, they could be unstoppable the next time the Nazis went in. Alfred was almost excited by the thought, until he remembered the fear in Ludwig's face. _He wants Russia, badly. Not only that, he wants to_ embarrass _Russia_ —which meant that, the second the ice and snow melted, the _moment_ nascent warmth awoke, Hitler would not hesitate to move, and the front would descend into another slaughterhouse.

Staring at the bold red outline of the Soviet Union, Alfred felt an odd mixture of dread and hope. Stalin may have been as much of a tyrant as Hitler, but if there was one use for a tyrant in the Allies' defense system, it was his mind. He could think like Hitler, and that was what the Allies needed him to do if they had any chance of preserving lives. In turn, he would need to believe the intel Alfred gave Ivan. However, given how his repeated demands for a Western Front had so far been ignored (as far as Alfred knew, anyway), neither of them were inclined to trust one another—respect, perhaps, but never trust.

"Look at the British Isles, Australia, New Zealand, the Dutch Indies, India—" Alfred shoved the map into the nearest cadet's hands and fell back on his bunk, raking his hands over his face. Roosevelt went on with the names—"the Near East and the Continent of Africa"—but his eyes couldn't keep up. Instead, he sank into the darkness his hands provided and let the words wash over him. He couldn't think about it anymore. All the notes, the information, the time with Roosevelt he was missing simply because he'd made his choice to be one in the chaos.

George had never let him do that in the Revolution. He'd been young—younger than his prized secretary, Alex—and like Alex, he'd had to stay at his side virtually every waking moment.

It was fitting, then, that Roosevelt had chosen this year to celebrate George's birthday, five weeks after Alfred had screamed at them that America's god had wanted to be British all along.

It was almost like he'd set a precedent.

 _The only precedent I can ask for in these decisions is yours._

Yeah, right. _Not anymore._ He understood then that Roosevelt wasn't dropping hints. He was accepting Alfred's freedom to make his own choices—was even willing to help him—so long as he did his job in protecting what America stood for, always. "Held to his course," as he put it earlier that evening, even though "he knew that no man's life or fortune was secure, without freedom and free institutions."

Well-spoken, but Alfred fought a groan as the internal ticking of lives lost revived its relentless pace inside his head. _I'm sorry, Franklin._ He winced. _I'm sorry._ But he didn't regret his words, and he wouldn't regret leaving. He'd made the choice because he wasn't ready to hold the world on his shoulders, perhaps the key difference he shared with so many of his people in their delusions. They were notorious for thinking that. Ever since the delicate beginning…

"…continue the policy of carrying war to the enemy in distant lands and distant waters—as far away as possible from our own home grounds."

Roosevelt's broadcast was heard across those waters, too, the static of wires and distance pushed away by the reassuring cadence of the President's voice warming the chambers of the Prime Minister's rooms, late into the night.

"Ever since this nation became the arsenal of democracy, ever since enactment of Lend-Lease, there has been _one_ persistent theme through _all_ Axis propaganda. This theme has been that Americans are admittedly rich, that Americans have considerable industrial power, but that Americans are soft and decadent, that they cannot and will not unite and work and fight."

And Churchill—seated in the chair beside the radio, dressed for the day and smelling of the wafts of smoke that wound around him, wide awake in the sea of troubles swirling about in his head—smiled wearily.

" 'Trust the people'," he murmured, quoting the father who barely loved him as Roosevelt described how Axis propagandists call them "weaklings" and "playboys". Unlike the President's, Churchill's words escaped into empty air, offered for no audience when Clementine was asleep and his closest aides were away, but they would be heard. Heeded. The one person who now more than ever needed to learn how would hear him all the way in the distant, hot wiles of a bleeding Africa. He was sure of it. "Trust him, and _trust_ that they will know what to do, old chap. We cannot win this without them."

* * *

 **MAY 1942**

" _Nihon_ —"

"Keep walking, and be quiet." Honda Kiku tugged the boy along the marshy ground, scanning instinctively for threats through the dense fog. He saw several misshapen forms, but none that resembled a human—crouched or otherwise.

Nonetheless, trusting the promises made in the letter seemed as unwise as going in blind and unarmed, so while one hand grasped the boy's arm to keep him from running, Kiku's other rested on the hilt of his _katana_ , ever-ready to draw. He would not be caught off-guard if his enemy decided to try anything.

The boy didn't—wisely. He'd been trying to escape since Kiku took custody of him last December, but now he knew better than to deceive him. After all these months, the only Japanese he knew was Kiku's formal name, but that was all he truly needed to know. Whatever gibberish Kiku said to him these days, his tone made it clear what he wanted, and what would happen if he didn't cooperate. The result was that he trekked behind him now in sullen, frightened silence.

It bothered him. Kiku disliked seeing the terror on his face and knowing he was the cause, but he knew being in his custody was better than being absorbed into his military, as the rest of his people were.

The past twenty years had been hell in his head. Invading Manchukuo, he'd been told, had been a matter of necessity and opportunity—a need for oil, rubber and respect. He'd never really expected the military's power lust to fade, but when his prediction came true, overwhelming both the split-partied Chinese and his own government with little-disguised assassinations—including an attempt on himself, and he still had the mark to show for it—Kiku couldn't find it in him to encourage or deny the new regime. In fact, he couldn't find it in him to say anything at all.

To encourage them would damage his own carefully cultivated soul, the piece of himself he had cherished above all else since the dawn of his existence.

To deny them and their punishing state of mind would send him spiraling into disgrace. Dishonor. Death would be mercy by comparison when the very word made him shudder, although Kiku's mask never faltered.

Despite that, however, Kiku couldn't come up with a clear answer for why he was standing by. He wanted respect from other countries, that much he knew, but what of the crippling onslaughts, the beatings, the disrespect and the prejudices?

 _It's for the people's betterment._

And the only response he had was, was it? The Co-Prosperity Sphere was a sham. The people he'd conquered were starving—

The people he'd conquered. _Conquered._ The word tasted like bliss on his tongue—the soul of respect and grace he sought. Every day the Allies were getting weaker, being pushed through Burma and straight into India by his effervescent troops. Word had it that their men were deserting, too. _Oh_ , he could feel his men's jubilation, the pride of their success everywhere from Burma in the north to the Dutch East Indies in the south, Malaya in the west to the Gilbert Islands in the east. His hopes for rule and empire were coming true—people would no longer be under the asphyxiating hands of Western lands, people could be at _peace_ under him—and he wanted to join his men in their celebration, shed the rank of his white suit for black, for Corregidor, the Pacific's last Allied stronghold, had fallen. Even the United States was falling under the sheer force of his reign—

Kiku gasped to a stop, drawn out of the nationalist state of mind that had so plagued and taunted him these ten years. He barely felt the boy bump into his legs as something he couldn't quite place pulled at his conscience.

The United States. Against all odds, Kiku was fighting the strongest personification in the world beside Russia—and not even he could match the output and wealth of America. Just last month, he'd discovered some of the true might of their forces when several bombers had attacked Tokyo. No material damage had been done, but the psychological aftershocks had disarmed him one night. As his troops cut through Free China to find the downed Americans, Kiku hadn't been able to stop the tide of rage and fear that enveloped his people. They knew now that their land was vulnerable, their defendants too overstretched to safeguard that which mattered most.

By the time Kiku had pushed out the screams and the crackling fires his troops set, had lulled the quiet conversations shared between families across the main land, his skin was slick with sweat. He shivered uncontrollably. He hadn't felt such strong emotion in years, and it made him question his actions. His conscience awoke for a brief albeit achingly long period that night, made him feel like an idiot for attacking Pearl Harbor.

Those days when he teetered back and forth between war and negotiated peace seemed ages ago now, and vague. When he hadn't been absorbed in the twists and turns of his mind, the few clear memories he had involved the Emperor shaking his head. No, he did not want war with America. But the military oscillated—plans or diplomacy? Even now, torn between ideologies as he was, Kiku spun back and forth. Plans, or peace?

The day he met Alfred F. Jones had been a startling one. When those black ships came charging into the harbor at Edo Bay, Kiku had done the best he could to protect his people, his interests, and his faith, but the Americans unnerved him. He'd expected a selfish, self-serving and greedy man for his equal at the negotiating table, but their personification was unlike any other he had met—fixated on his goal, but open-minded. Classist yet personable. Outspoken, idealistic, and hopelessly young. He had never known a personification to be solely in the service of his people, but that was what Alfred F. Jones had been—if not a little too engaged with them. Whether he had maintained that buoyancy over the years, Kiku couldn't say, but he'd known—from the day that Prime Minister Tojo ordered the attack on Pearl Harbor—he would regret making an adversary of him. Everyone knew that war with America—already trigger-happy, regardless of her isolationistic views—was a calculated risk, that in spite of the chauvinism his country would not survive this unscathed, but none of them were old enough to remember Commodore Perry or Consul General Harris. None of them could hope to understand the scope of American enmity, the martialing effect it would have on their personification. Even Kiku couldn't imagine it, but when he thought about the response to Pearl Harbor, the fury his navy and planes ignited in one fell swoop more successful than the operation itself, it called to mind a single memory:

In 1853, every time Kiku tried to say "no" to American demands, every time a calculating light flashed in Alfred F. Jones's eyes, belying an age and intelligence far beyond the youthful naïveté, Kiku had wanted to be him a little bit more. He'd wanted that power, the respect earned from fighting for his own freedom, instead of bowing to every stringer who came knocking.

He wanted that charismatic ability to make anyone in his way yield without their even knowing it. He wanted them to bow a path to the oil and resources he desperately needed, to the food his military was even now wresting from the conquered islanders, but—most importantly—he wanted those Western bastards to part for his beleaguered people, stomped on and exploited for so long, no longer.

Both Kiku and the boy started at the rumble of an engine overhead. Kiku tensed, ready to plow them both into the marsh, but the plane's shadow flew past and away, fading into the humid night.

He remained still. Waiting. They were as near to the fault line as he was willing to go.

The boy trembled in his grip, confusing the nerves that tingled along his spine. _Where is he?_

His question was answered soon enough. A shadow appeared in front of him, parting the fog to reveal the bleak color of a Chinese Nationalist uniform. Kiku's _katana_ was out before he fully realized that the man wore no bomber vest, or indeed understood that even if he had, it wouldn't kill either of them, not even the boy.

Still, Kiku refused to lower his weapon. He didn't trust that his opponent had nothing up his sleeve—a knife, or even a chopstick in his hand could become a deadly weapon—and he saw little logic in putting his away when he already knew it was there.

He would be disgraced if anyone found out what he was doing. He would be stripped of his uniform, his medals, relegated to guarding the POW camps—or worse, Ofuna. Being immortal made it worse. His quest for honor could never be resolved by death. The only way—no, the only thing he could do was arm himself against this sea of troubles and hope that, by opposing, he would end them. Or they would end themselves.

But Wang Yao ignored Kiku altogether, spreading his arms wide as the boy jerked from Kiku's grip and ran to him.

" _Jia Long_."

Kiku felt his blood run cold as the man he'd once called a guardian wrapped warm, scrawny arms around Hong Kong, frozen with a longing he hadn't felt in centuries.

And the wet ground began to bleed under his feet.

* * *

When he heard the shouts, Ivan looked calmly up from the map plans spread on the table, glimpsed a hulking shadow move past his tent and followed it, boots sloshing in the mud of the open area one hundred kilometers outside of Kharkov.

Five days ago, the Southwestern Front under Marshal Timoshenko had attempted to retake the city, only to be driven back by German restraint. The botched attack had left them surrounded in the west, tensions high, and Stalin unsettled enough to send Timoshenko—one of the Red Army's best commanders and a good friend of the Comrade—help with his leadership in the form of Ivan.

After the signing in January, armed with the intelligence Alfred gave him, Ivan had preoccupied himself with preventing attacks on Stalingrad and the Caucasus, pressuring his secret agents and diplomats in Britain for further intel that England may have received, and making counterplans for every possible direction the Nazis could come as winter rattled the panes of the old palace, workers and slaves froze to death in the _gulags_ and _kolkhozes_ , and the special units moved tanks and armaments and industries across the Ural Mountains, into the depths of the country where his enemies couldn't take them. Meanwhile, the Nazis died in their sleep and lost fingers and toes around their struggling campfires—a guess, but a logical one. If Napoleon had underestimated the ferocity of his winters, he had no doubt Hitler had, and while, privately, Ivan was relieved, he knew it would take more than bitingly cold temperatures to kill off the force of their attacks. 1,100 years had taught that he couldn't rely on General Winter to work for him all the time. He wasn't that dumb. Or hopeful.

Stalin hadn't believed his intelligence. Ivan had. He may not trust Alfred, but he knew what fear looked like, and that was what he'd seen underneath his blustering confidence at the signing. However, he wasn't the one calling the shots, and when the same information came to Stalin from their networks, he dismissed it again, labeling it a distraction from Moscow. Thus, in the face of Stalin's stubborn cautiousness, Ivan was left to the plans and strategy alone. Few were brave enough to subvert Stalin's command, so—lest it mold into a tight-lipped rumor that he was going to attempt a coup—he didn't ask for help. He was used to working alone, found comfort in it, and he wasn't afraid of Stalin's wrath—the few times it had turned on him. Even if he wanted to, the Comrade knew he could not deport Ivan without consequence. He was, after all, the only Russian indispensable yet expendable enough to fight on the frontlines, and likewise one of the few to appropriately embody Soviet looks and ideals, so exiling his poster boy wasn't an option, no matter how much Ivan on occasion going against his orders irritated him.

Disregarding all of that, his security and likability did not prevent him from being sent on a boy's errand. It wasn't that Ivan wasn't concerned about the Southwestern Front—he wasn't: Timoshenko knew what he was doing—it was that, well, he was tired of the surprises, tired of the noise and clutter, and he was especially _tired_ of finding _Prussia_ on his doorstep. Ordinarily, it would be a question of whether or not the target was important enough to warrant Prussia's attention, but Ivan was certain, if Stalingrad was truly the aim, he would want to be right there at the helm, just so he could rub Ivan's face in the shit and ashes when his Germans won.

At the thought of his cackling laugh and smug smirks, a rare spot of rage reared its head, but Ivan pushed it down. Rotten pile of smegma though he was, he wasn't worth the anger.

To Prussia, Ivan had never been anything but a filthy pagan Slav, but now he was taking that hatred out on his people—in Ukraine, Byelorussia, Lithuania. Countless villages massacred, and there were _streams_ of numbers in the dead. Moscow would have been purged, too— _again_ , Ivan thought with some dulled measure of long-suppressed anguish—if they had won last November. It began to seem as if Hitler's only need for invasion had been to eradicate them all, and that puzzled Ivan for a moment. If a cleansing was all they wanted, why not be stealthy about it and keep to their Non-Aggression Pact, surprise him when it was too late and frustrate Britain and America? It was what Ivan would have done. Then again, neither Hitler nor Prussia had ever been ones for closed lips, unlike him—although, if they had, the French Front he andStalin craved to drought the rivers of red on his land might be priority to the Allies, instead of absent.

Left with no choice, however, Ivan had gone to the front, and here he was, stomping through mud and slush and dead grass to the pile of heavy, moving coats clustered at the infirmary entrance. Winds coming off the Black Sea still bit the cheeks in spite of the late-coming spring, but Ivan pulled his scarf over his nose to avoid the stench of his men's breath, rank with tobacco and anti-freeze as he pushed through the crowd.

What he found was rather underwhelming. Two of the three scouts he'd sent out in camouflage knelt on either side of a pallet holding the third, whose chest and flank had become the mauled pelt of a wolf's. He wasn't moving, but the scouts and the few nurses the front had acted as if he was alive, scrabbling for supplies to dress him.

The scout nearest Ivan looked up as he approached and relief flooded his deep set eyes. "Marshal Braginsky—they saw us as we were heading back from their line."

Ivan motioned him to move, and he took his place at the scout's side, gently pulling the coat away from his chest. It looked as if a bear had taken a massive bite out of his flank. Everything from his armpit to the southern edges of his left rib cage was gone. Ivan could see his heart beating sluggishly under his sternum, and blood had pooled rapidly in the crevices and jagged bone left behind, spilling and staining his clothes. This man was lucky to be alive.

He wouldn't stay so for long. They didn't have the proper equipment to help him. All they could do was sedate him and let him go peacefully; a glance in the scouts' stern faces confirmed this. They simply brought him back to preserve his dignity, to let him die around friends instead of at the hands of the Nazis.

Dropping the coat, Ivan spoke to the first scout, now at the third's head. "What did you find?"

"They were preparing to leave when we got there, Marshal. Liev saw them warming up the engines on their _Panzer_ units. That is how Nikolai was wounded, sir." As he finished, the scout peeled his friend's sweat-matted hair from his face, a strangely affectionate gesture that told Ivan he would be mourning privately for months—maybe years. For a beat, Ivan wondered how they knew each other, who they were outside of warfare and how far back their relationship went, whether it wove through their birthplace or a mutual bond beyond it.

He shut the curiosity down, and quickly. The last time he let himself grow close to any one of his people, they got hurt. He got hurt, and he still hadn't forgiven himself the fault of connection.

His purpose was to protect his people, certainly, but no matter how he tried, he could never seem to get the trust part right. He was always too late, or his fragile love was never enough to save them. Not here, when his world always, _always_ cracked and fractured and fell apart around paranoia and oppressèd natures. Anyone he ever dared to care about, dared to let live as something more in his memory, was gone by the time he mustered the courage to try and make a difference. All that was left by then was acceptance, and a new scar on his heart.

"What did you hear about where they planned to go?" Ivan demanded, unapologetically harsh. Invasion was anticipated after their pathetic attempt; they had plans, but how soon would they need them?

Without a flinch, the scout started to speak, but it was Timoshenko's voice that came out.

"Positions! Get the artillery going! The enemy has been spotted heading east into our salient. Go, positions, now!"

A general echo of Timoshenko's words followed, and in the scramble for preparation that ensued, the third scout left for lonely death in the infirmary tent, Ivan made his way to the edges of their camp, scanning the horizon for the incoming threat.

He found it, a line of metal and black against the bruised morning sky. There was a personification among them. He sensed it, and he let it guide his gaze to the center of the line until he felt it hit home with a familiar tang of bittersweet rancor. He had fought this one before, many times.

Prussia. At the forefront, standing in a _Panzer_ as it trundled across the sodden soil. He and his disposable guns were approaching fast enough that Ivan could almost see the giddy leer on his lips beneath the binoculars. Shaking his head, Ivan ducked into his tent and fetched his rifle along with extra ammunition before returning to his spot and taking aim.

He never changed. He should know that, but still Ivan wondered how many shots it would take before he hit him in the heart.

Because, if he was truthful, he would very much enjoy paying him back for using a _tank_ against three defenseless, scantily-armed scouts.

* * *

"Why do we have to meet at night?"

"And in the desert? It's blazin' hot here."

"It's daytime in our lands, too, Kiwi. We've got a lot of work to do—"

"Chin up, Aussie. You're not the one whose been shat on relentlessly—"

"Not true! Darwin's been bombed!"

"But you haven't been invaded, have ya, lad? We spent an entire year under threat of invasion, and we would've been too if Jerry hadn't gone widdershins on those barmy Bolsheviks. I'd love to see you hiding in a mangy bomb shelter with the rest o' your sodding criminals in that bloody gaol you call a home. Not a heartsome image, is it?"

"As riveting as it would be to watch Australia kick your arse, we don't have time for infighting. Save your shite for later." Files slapped sharply onto the makeshift conference table—truthfully, a conglomeration of smaller, rickety wooden tables—and the idle conversation—volatile or otherwise—which had punctuated the humid air fell dead when Arthur entered the tent, but while most eyes were either on or avoiding him, his glowered at the other end. He hoped he looked intimidating, because the tarp under his feet was difficult to walk on without making a fool of himself, sliding with the inconstant sands. "Savvy?"

Identical smaragdine eyes stared back—a little hot from the altercation, and promising more later, but otherwise carefully unbothered. Arthur had a long history with them.

He hated them—almost as much as he loathed his own.

Somehow managing to look relaxed in a splintering stool without a back, Scotland grinned, hiding the faintly stained teeth underneath. "O' course, baby brother." A small smirk lifted the lips of their sibling seated beside Scotland—without malice, thankfully, and quickly stifled. Wales was historically the most bearable of the three, from Arthur's perspective, but he still felt the old anger burn in the pit of his stomach, rising up to his heart like the old curse of the mother.

He relished it for a moment before pushing it back into its cage. He'd been irritated too often these days for his own good, and the last thing he wanted was to inspire mutiny among his other colonies as a result of his behavior.

Feeling India's stare in his periphery, Arthur put on a tight grin and replied, "Brilliant. Then, as my subordinate, I will trust that you can hold your tongue until this meeting is over. Speaking of which"—addressing the entire gathering now—"the purpose of this is for updates of current, ongoing operations in or around your fields. We don't have time to plan anything new, and I'd rather have this finished before dawn, so no one knows you were here—"

"Why not?" said New Zealand—Oliver, as it were. He'd changed his own name from Maori in the hopes that Arthur would make an effort to relate to him. Thus far, nothing had changed. "I've heard the Prime Minister's going to the States. You'll be making plans with him, right? Why shouldn't we?"

There was some manner of muted protest at these words, but no colony was altogether surprised by Arthur's refusal to let them contribute to the plans. Nor, it seemed, by Churchill's upcoming travels; the news had already made its rounds.

 _Damn._ How had they discovered that? None of his men knew, and he'd only found out a few days ago via intelligence that he was to return to Parliament at the end of the month in preparation for the trip. If that knowledge had been intercepted, the Germans could well already know and be planning to ambush Churchill's ship on its path across the pond.

Brilliant. Leave it to Arthur to be responsible for assassinating the Prime Minister simply because he'd been away from the home front too long.

As if he'd channeled the wretched image to his left, Matthieu worried his lip and glanced over, assessing. Arthur ignored it, and without looking up from the files said flippantly, "How would you like to be invaded? That can surely be arranged if you stick round long enough for Jerry to see you."

Australia's brow shot up, and others started to protest—Arthur heard New Zealand say, "How will that make a difference? I'm fighting for you anyway, and they know it! I'm your _colony,_ Britain!"—but Matthieu stepped in before any of them could overpower the already tense mood. "Al—er, America's representation won't be in Washington, D.C. when Lord Britain—"

"England. We're Britain, lad—"

"Arrives with the Prime—er, bulldog. He's on a business trip," Matthieu finished, with all the unsure and guilty air of having lied to a group of elders. Arthur wasn't certain he'd even heard Alistair's insertion, but then, he wasn't trying to pay attention either; he had a feeling Matthieu would be giving him updates on his brother's position when they had privacy.

He didn't want to hear them. What he'd said to New Zealand was harsh, sure, but he didn't want to know what hare-brained idiot scheme Matthieu's brother had gotten himself into next. But most importantly, he didn't want to hear about the success. The freedom. The joy…

Any images that tried to resurface fell back when Matthieu, in masking the rubbish he fed the others, shot Arthur a flinty-eyed look that said, "Do you _want_ to be run out of here?"

He had a point. Due to the rising tensions between the native Egyptians to his presence, their representative had made a point to seat himself as far away as possible from any Briton. Now, he was folded silently in his chair, observing while one of the many translators reiterated the English in Arabic to his ear. Arthur could only imagine what was going through his head right then, witnessing all of his English-speaking colonies picking bitter fights over trivial chinwags, but they both knew one thing: Arthur needed the Suez Canal. The Allies needed it. Preserving the transportation route and the oil reserves to the east was the sole reason they were stuck in the bloody desert, practically cowering behind their Gazala Line after the Germans' relentless, unending drive— _again_.

Yet, there were many in his kingdom who longed for an Axis victory.

And it likely didn't help that, back in February, his Minister Resident in Cairo had surrounded King Farouk's palace with tanks and forced him to appoint a pro-British regime. Yes, Arthur had been right pleased when he arrived late in the month to hear _that._

After the disastrous night of _King Lear_ , he'd told Churchill that he'd rather be on the front, so the Prime Minister had sent him back into the Desert War—Desert Stalemate, more like. The Germans and Italians under Erwin Rommel had been transformed from a weak Italian nuisance to a great and formidable foe skilled in the art of blitzing and terrorizing. Arthur had come into Gazala just as they were finishing reclaiming the lands lost to his forces several months before. In the course of a _month_ , the allegiances of these cities had changed hands a second time. It was worse than it had been this time last year, when Rommel pushed them back to Egypt after _two_ months.

His men—British, Australian, New Zealanders, Indian, South African and Polish alike—were low on esteem, Generals Ritchie and Auchinleck distraught, offering Arthur only feeble hopes for success. Fortune truly was fickle in this region, but Arthur hadn't been demoralized—only blindly devoted to finding a solution, weakness be damned.

They would rebuild, and they would win.

Clearing his throat, Arthur raised his voice to speak over the competing nations—most notable of which was India's primary representative, always looking for an excuse to fight with him. One would think he'd have learned how to wrangle him by now. "Can we get on with it, please?!"

Reluctantly, and with more than a little grumbling, the Empire quieted.

Huffing, Arthur dropped onto his seat and opened the first file. "Canada."

Matthieu sat straighter.

"Have you anything to report other than volunteer and industrial statistics?"

"Uh, well—" He looked quickly down at the notes in his lap. A sheen of sweat shone on his forehead, unaccustomed as he was to Mediterranean heat—even in shirtsleeves and trousers. "U-Boats have torpedoed and sunk two cargo ships in the St. Lawrence."

Arthur jotted a note on the file's inner cover, reminding himself to send this information to Churchill when he had the chance. "Brilliant. Where at? Québec? Montreal?"

"No, not that far in—the gulf, near Anticosti Island. The Navy hasn't been able to catch them, but radar's suggested that they may be doing more than preventing shipments." Matthieu pressed his lips together, recalcitrant as always around other company.

Arthur sighed. "I don't have time for suspenseful games, Canada."

"They might be dropping off spies—whether State- or Ottawa-bound, I don't know, but, well…"

"It's likely, is what you're saying."

" _Oui._ "

It was incredible how quickly anything remotely French angered him. Arthur shot Matthieu a steely look harsher than the one the latter gave earlier, to which he only shrugged and grinned half-heartedly. "Making sure you're not totally down-trodden," he muttered.

"But in front of my brothers, honestly?" remarked Arthur through tight lips. Matthieu chuckled, earning skyward-lifted eyes from the two men in question. Ireland—still technically his charge but presently, ardently neutral, and a face he avoided more acutely than Scotland and Wales—would have been replaced by Arthur's nephew, Northern Ireland, if he'd been old enough. As it was, Arthur had left him in Belfast with a nanny. He'd had more than enough of playing the part of guardian.

Those around the table who could vouch for that declaration simply stared. No one had the heart to say it, but they all believed Matthieu to be his little whipping boy, his secretary. Unfortunately, they weren't entirely wrong.

What they were wise enough not to say was why.

"Moving on. Cape, you're still in charge of Operation Bonus, correct? How is that getting on—?"

"Ironclad."

"Oh, brilliant." Arthur jotted a note on the wrong file without noticing. "Don't have to worry about that, then—"

"You misunderstand me, Britain."

"For fuck's sake, it's England, man! Where's _Èirinn_ when we need him to vouch for this, eh?"

No one acknowledged Scotland's remarks as Arthur lifted his head. Cape Colony—wait a tic, that wasn't right. Cape _Province_ ; Arthur should have known that. It had been thirty-two years since the Union, after all, and if he remembered correctly, his human name was Sizwe. He was a quiet man whose wishes and governing of the territory had frequently tested Arthur's limits since he'd had him pulled from the Xhosa to lead. A long way from the deep hue of those early years, his pigmentation changed every time he saw him, struggling to decide between light or dark. For now, it had settled on something in between that gave him the appearance of one who loved the sun. Yet, in spite of the changes Dutch and English inhabitants brought, his eyes never faltered from their deep color and, as of that moment, gazed at him warily underneath his veneer of calm.

Others—picking up on his pensiveness—were starting to as well, but Arthur wasn't certain what he'd done that was so strange. He thought of Matthieu's attempt at humor: _Making sure you weren't totally down-trodden._ Was that how he looked? Sure, he'd run out of his cigarettes last week, and his headaches were positively nightmarish, and his eyes were probably as dead as they had been last December, but surely wars didn't change his demeanor, not anymore. That much.

Yet again, he might be wrong. Everyone said this wasn't any old war like every other. This was different—in Churchill's words, mobile and scientific to an extent never used before. That meant death came more easily. More quickly, without a chance to say good night. Not that Arthur had ever been good at goodbyes. He clung, refused to let go until the dead had to kill him themselves.

 _Promise me, Alfred._

Arthur blinked rapidly and swallowed. He refused to show weakness again in full view of his brothers. "How do you mean?"

"The name of the operation became 'Ironclad', no longer 'Bonus'," he explained, patiently. "And it is stalling. Our forces have taken the northern ports—"

"Can you specify them, please?" Arthur yanked the proper file from the bottom of the stack and flipped it open, biting back a sigh. It hadn't been updated since the amphibious assault on the fifth of that month. Lovely.

Sizwe pressed his lips together, and Arthur realized that he probably shouldn't have asked that. Hardly anyone here was privy to the Madagascar invasion, let alone the reason why it was happening in the midst of a string of retreats and defeats here and in the Soviet Union. "Diégo Suarez and Antisirabe," he said, finally.

"Right. Go on."

By this point, several of the English-speaking colonies were sharing puzzled glances. The Cape Province was not among them; he had never been the type to scare easily. Few people at the table were. "The French governor will not surrender. He retreats to the south and blows up roads and bridges as he goes. He lays mines and traps for us and our tanks—"

"It's the bloody French. Vichy or not, what did you expect?" said Arthur exasperatedly, leaning his head against his fingertips. Some of the personifications and even a few of the translators placed about relaxed at that, although Matthieu pursed his lips and Scotland snorted. Talking rubbish about the foppish French meant their colonizer was in a good mood—or, at least, a bearable one.

Nonetheless, Cape Province's smile was bitter. "Nothing less, I assume."

"Precisely. Well, we'll see how it goes in the coming weeks before I send in reinforcements, all right?"

He nodded curtly.

"Anything else?" Australia asked, surprisingly amiable for his sour mood earlier.

Arthur felt a pang as he looked around the group of colonies and mandates, his dominions and his protectorates. Their wariness hadn't been out of concern. It had been fear. New Zealand alone seemed to be desperate for a post in the spotlight. The rest…

They all knew what happened if they crossed Arthur. Most, if not all of them, had felt his wrath at some point or another.

This was what he'd become. Someone—no, some _thing_ to be feared. Hated, too, as some of their gazes suggested.

Was it better that way? His history had taught him to think so, but he felt strangely small when surrounded by so many representations of the human beings he'd marginalized and outright discriminated, the men and women and children whose customs and cultures his people had ignored in favor of their own mucked-up "utopia".

But fear was not a better method—especially not now—and as he looked down at his thin wrists and long fingers, the sinewy arms that stretched away from them and the scrawny legs underneath them—things that used to be strong and muscled—he hoped, when his Empire finally fell apart, that his successor wouldn't dig the same grave.

 _Promise me—_

"Arthur?" Matthieu murmured. "You all right?"

"There are other issues to be discussed, but I trust your commanding officers will communicate your needs and updates well enough. Meeting adjourned." He didn't mean to sound so harsh; he couldn't help it, but Matthieu's hand left his shoulder lightning-quick, and chairs scraped against the tarp with the eagerness of wanting to leave.

Arthur had taught himself and been taught that fear was infinitely more effective than love. Only once, before he'd sworn off love, had he given himself to the beauty and magic of it. Only once, after he'd sworn off love, had he been weak enough to let his guard down. One died by the poisoned lance of revenge.

The other betrayed his trust.

Alarums pierced the still, humid air. Arthur startled—as did the personifications who hadn't yet left the tent.

And the announcement rang through the loudhailer cries of guns and positions: "Into positions! Italian army spotted due west! The Third Indian Motor Brigade reports _Panzer_ divisions to the south, running the line at Bir Hakiem!"

By the tent flap, Matthieu sighed and said to Australia, "So much for not being invaded, eh?"

* * *

 **Footnotes:**

New addition to abbreviated titles:  
 _Unbroken_ = _Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption_ , by Laura Hillenbrand

America  
1\. When Alfred says he has a commercial pilot's license, those were possible to obtain in the thirties. Because he went up in the twenties, I think he would have been inspired to acquire a pilot's license as a way to get him out of the thirties' depression.

 **2\. Air Force:** In 1942, there were four Classification and Pre-Flight training centers across the US. The air base in Nashville, Tennessee, where this section is set, is one of them. Before being confirmed or rejected by the USAAF, hopeful cadets underwent intensive testing and Classification. Testing included a physical, multiple-choice general education tests, and physio-motor coordination tests. From what I understand, all of these were difficult and adhered to strict standards. Classification, on the other hand, was a confirmation from the USAAF, in which they sorted you as either a pilot, a navigator, or a bombardier.

On a different but related note, the "flight cap" Hap is described wearing is actually a service cap, but in the USAAF that's what they were known as.

 **3\. Henry Harley "Hap" Arnold** directed air strategies on all fronts of the war, but since Americans didn't land in Africa until November of 1942 (thanks in part to a lovely blockade of U-Boats in the Atlantic) it would be more plausible at this time that the Pacific War was his main focus. He received the nickname "Hap" from always having a pleasant expression despite being ill-tempered, intolerant of incompetence, and impatient. Regardless, this man was responsible for the entire Air Force branch and can claim contribution to the developments that forged the modern US Air Force before he died in 1950. He survived four heart attacks before his heart finally gave out—hence Alfred's comment.

Alfred outranking him in the army just means that while Arnold was a three-star general at the time this takes place, Alfred was a four-star, or "full" general. The five star generals you hear about (and which Arnold eventually was) weren't created until 1944, and even then they were only awarded during World War II and posthumously.

4\. The name of the secretary is a brief tribute to Jacqueline Cochran, who was born Bessie Lee Pittman, head of the WASP program 1942 – 1944.

 **5\. Fireside Chat:** This was given at 10 p.m. EST on 23 February 1942. It seemed pertinent to include because it captures the feeling that America is at this point still kind of unprepared but ready and willing to throw themselves into the effort. I wish I could have fit more, but much of it didn't really apply to Alfred's situation. Instead, it served—as I'm sure you've guessed—as a sort of passage into the following scenes, so if you have time, go to the FDR Presidential Library website and look up the recording (source listed below). It's quite moving.

There is one part—and I didn't put in in here because it wouldn't fit—where he talks about not giving special advantages to any one group or race. I thought it kind of ironic, almost like he was acknowledging the elitist mistake he made in giving Alfred that special advantage.

Oh, and yes, according to _Franklin and Winston_ , Churchill did hear this Fireside Chat in London. He called it "heartening." He was able to listen because radios in the thirties and forties were built with shortwave bands that allowed for international broadcasting.

 _Section Sources:  
_ "Aviation Cadet Training Program (USAAF)" – Wikipedia  
"FDR Audio Recordings: Recordings and Utterances of Franklin D. Roosevelt: 1920 - 1945" – Franklin Delano Roosevelt Presidential Library and Museum website  
"Four-star Generals" – Wikipedia  
 _Franklin and Winston  
_ "Franklin D. Roosevelt, Master Speech File, 1898 – 1945: Box 66" – FDR Presidential Library and Museum website  
"General Henry H. Arnold" – US Air Force website  
"General Henry H. 'Hap' Arnold: Architect of America's Air Force" – C.V. Glines, History. Net  
 _USAAF Handbook: 1939 – 1945_ , by Martin W. Bowman  
 _When Books Went to War_ , by Molly Guptill Manning

Japan  
 _1\. Nihon_ is Japanese for "Japan". _Nippon_ is another name (I'm not certain of the difference other than one is more formal than the other), but the Hetalia Archives state that Himaruya chose Japan's surname "Honda" in relation to "Nihon", so that's what I'm using.

 **2\. Manchukuo:** technically Manchuria, but I think Japan would be just brainwashed and confused enough to use the name of the puppet state instead. The invasion took place in September 1931.

3\. **State of Mind:** To give you an overview of what Japan was like at this time, the imperial regime was basically overthrown by the military, where nationalism ran strongest in the twenties. After the Kanto Earthquake in 1923 cost them two years' worth of oil supplies, many officers deluded themselves into thinking that the only way to win global respect and to secure the supplies and resources they needed but their island lacked was through territorial expansion. Thus, over the next decade or so, the military subverted the civil government and staged assassinations of Diet members, eventually murdering the Prime Minister (Inukai Tsuyoshi) in 1932. From then on, they built up their navy and armies under a punishing regime.

Because of the huge emphasis on honor and _bushido_ (samurai system of morals and ethics that governed behavior) in this regime, I think Japan would have trouble deciding what exactly to do. He couldn't staunchly support the Allies because it would disgrace him. But I don't believe he could look at what his army was doing and think it was acceptable. Thus, he's left in this limbo that drags him from one extreme to the other and tears his head apart.

 **4\. Co-Prosperity Sphere:** This was kind of Japan's version of _Lebensraum_. The Japanese proposed a Greater East Asia in which all native Asians would benefit, but the truth was, they favored some people more than others, depending on degrees of loyalty and respect given. As _WWII_ puts it, "Japan promised much but delivered absolutely nothing. The Co-Prosperity Sphere was merely a convenient mask for Japanese imperial ambition" (160). Any benefit went more to individual people than to whole nations.

 **5\. Allies:** At this point, their butts had pretty much been unceremoniously kicked out of the western Pacific. I considered listing all the places that Japan had conquered by early May 1942, but realized that would be a _looong_ list. About the only places that weren't captured in the west Pacific at this time were Papua (to Australia) and Australia itself (New Zealand's more South Pacific, don't you think?).

Corregidor, the last US stronghold in the Pacific, fell on 6 May. The Battle of the Coral Sea took place the day after. Result? The Japanese call off their attack on Port Moresby in Papua, which control of would have isolated Australia from the Allies.

As for the desertion bit, the Burmese were, but I'm not sure about anyone else. To be fair, the leader of occupied Burma at this time, Ba Maw, was a big proponent of the Co-Prosperity Sphere and used slave labor - everyone from his own citizens to POWs - to build the Burma Railway; I can understand if they just wanted out of the land altogether.

 **6\. Doolittle Raid:** On 18 April 1942, 16 B-25 bombers launched off an aircraft carrier to bomb-raid five Japanese cities, Tokyo being the main target. The raid was a super successful precursor to Midway, both claiming vengeance for Pearl Harbor, and it proved to the Japanese that their land was vulnerable. Japanese officials were furious—especially when they found out that many of the eighty American servicemen had landed safely and were being helped by the free Chinese (to the point where Sino-American relations today make it almost depressing to look back at the kindness they offered so many decades before). The raid opened Japanese eyes to a blind spot in their defenses, so troops went on another pillaging spree to find them and to punish the Chinese who helped them. The worst part was that both American and Chinese officials predicted that retaliation would happen. The resulting spree, according to the Smithsonian website, was as bad as Nanking, claiming 250,000 lives.

 **7\. Pearl Harbor (continuing the footnote "Japan" from chapter 3):** Although the Japanese had created plans prior, the decision to attack Pearl Harbor was not made until 1 December 1941, having been discussed two days before. The commander-in-chief of the Japanese Combined Fleet, Admiral Yamamoto Isoroku, made an uncanny prediction of his navy's strength—6 months Japan would last in war against the US, after which it would be crushed. As another upcoming battle soon proved, he was correct. He, like Hirohito, did not want war with the US.

 **8\. 1853:** Remember the episode where Alfred mistook the President's request to make friends with Japan and became friends with a whale? Yeah, that's what this is—except, it's the part where he went to Japan, not the whale (sorry, whale dude!). Anyway, Commodore Perry and, five years later, Consul General Townsend Harris through the "Japan-US Treaty of Amity and Friendship" and the "Harris Treaty" kind of forced Japan to open trade to the West, whom the latter had shut out for over 200 years due to fears of cultural and religious influence (particularly the Christian missionaries) and foreign rule (look west to India and China). If you'll recall the episodes, the narrator starts listing some of the conditions in the two treaties, some of which were real, some of which were not. "Most Favored Nation" treatment? That's true, and it means that any privileges Japan gives to other nations later, the US receives as well. No offense, Alfred, but that sounds _exactly_ like the kind of thing he'd do.

"Edo" was the former name for Tokyo before the fall of the Shogunate in 1868, when the Meiji Restoration period began.

 **9\. Bomber Vests:** Chinese Nationalists sometimes used suicide squads or "Dare to Die Corps" against the Japanese and Communists during World War II. They strapped grenade packs or dynamite to their chests, threw themselves at the Japanese or under their tanks and blew themselves up. Not pleasant, but it was known to be effective in a couple battles.

10\. According to _Unbroken_ , those that were guards in Japan's POW camps and interrogation centers were "the dregs of the Japanese military"—those that didn't make the cut anywhere else (194). Having Japan play guard for that would be incredibly dishonoring.

 **11\. Hong Kong:** Hetalia Archives lists his name being either "Wang Jia Long" or "Li Xiao Chun". I thought keeping China's surname sounded reasonable, and that China would use the original Mandarin Chinese instead of Cantonese, in which case Hong Kong's human name would be "Wong Kha Loung".

 _Section Sources:  
_ "General Henry Harley 'Hap' Arnold: Architect of America's Air Force" – C.V. Glines, History. Net  
"The Hidden History Within Hetalia" – _Hetalia: World Series_ , season 4, disc 2  
"Human Names" – Hetalia Archives  
"National Revolutionary Army" – Wikipedia  
"Tokyo's History, Geography, and Population" – Tokyo Metropolitan Government website  
 _Unbroken  
_ "The Untold Story of the Vengeful Japanese Attack After the Doolittle Raid" – James M. Scott, Smithsonian website  
 _WWII_

Russia  
1\. "Secret agents in England" refers mainly to the Cambridge Five, five men who worked within Britain's foreign intelligence agencies, MI5 and MI6, to give intel to the NKVD, who were Stalin's secret police and the primary executors of the Great Purges in the 1930s.

2\. **The Great Purge** —or, the Great Terror, as it's also known—in itself is exactly what it sounds like: a massive purge of the Communist Party and Soviet territories of anyone considered anti-Soviet. As I understand it, it was enacted in part by man-made famine in Russia and the Ukraine, by Trotskyism (followers of Russian Revolutionary Leon Trotsky and a synonym for anarchism/radical socialism), and by Stalin's own paranoid nature. The first two years, 1933 and 1934, targeted corruption and inefficiency. After that, the purges became political and paranoid—obsessions over opposition to Stalin's leadership—and in 1939, after conquering the Baltics and Finland, these peoples were heavily targeted and murdered, imprisoned, and sent to slavery in Siberia. _Hetalia_ discusses this in a few episodes—it pretty much encompasses the Baltic characters' personalities—but not extensively.

In terms of word usage, _gulags_ were the labor camps that prisoners and expelled Party members were sent to. _Kolkhozes_ were collective farms in the country, set up after driving _kulaks_ (peasants of any financial standing suspected of opposing the farm collectivization) out of their lands.

3\. The special units mentioned refer to those that, shortly after the invasion of 1941, relocated the war industries from western and central Russia across the Ural Mountains as a means of protection from the Nazis.

4\. As for why Stalin is sometimes referred to as "Comrade", it's not meant to be stereotyping. The KGB source (listed below) quotes Vladimir Georgievich Dekanozov, the head of the USSR's foreign security department, referring to him as such, so it seemed appropriate (252).

 **5\. Southwestern Front:** In chapter four, one of the footnotes mentioned Soviet-German fighting halted in January. That's incorrect, I've discovered. On 20 January 1942, the Soviets launched a counter-offensive, creating a bulge in the Axis front, but it doesn't seem as though it was productive otherwise. At the earliest, then, fighting halted by February rather than January.  
Side note: a tentative plan for a Western European front in 1943 was laid out by Roosevelt to Churchill in April 1942.

 **6\. Ivan:** Being alive "1,100 years" assumes that Ivan was born c.860 AD, around when the people of Novgorad (a princedom that eventually consolidates into nascent Russia proper in the 1300s) elected a man named Rurik as their ruler. This puts him at around the same age as his sisters, Katyusha (Ukraine) and Natalia (Belarus).

Although "Braginski" is the popular fandom surname for Russia, the _"-ski"_ suffix is Polish. Properly Russian, his name would be "Braginsky".

7\. Byelorussia, 1942 = Belarus, present-day

 **8\. Prussia:** Going all the way back to his birth in the 1180s, he was from the start designed to be devoutly Christian. The crusading religious order he represented (Order of the Brothers of the German House of Saint Mary in Jerusalem—talk about a mouthful, right?) was created to give pilgrims heading into the Holy Land military defense and medical support, until they were recruited by Poland to defend them against the pagan tribes of Prussia (yep, it existed simultaneously), both of which had made repeated attempts to convert their opposing peoples. The Order itself became a State in 1224, and by the end of the thirteenth century, Prussia had been conquered. The Order turned on their allies by attacking the pagan peoples of Lithuania and eventually Poland itself, igniting over two centuries of conflict. Internal issues, however, were the ultimate bane of the Teutonic Knights, and the State fell apart in 1525, becoming the Duchy of Prussia under King Sigismund I of Poland. The Order itself still exists today.

It is canon that Prussia loathes Russia, but it doesn't seem to specify why, excepting Russia's (technically Novgorad's) snap in the Battle on the Ice episode, set in 1242. Given his history with militant Christianity, it seems like Ivan's pagan origins might be part of the source for Gilbert's enmity.

 **9\. Alcohol** was a huge factor in why and how men fought. Soviet men would often get drunk before going into a fight. When none was available, however, many sides of the war would attempt to make it themselves, or at least something with a similar effect. US Infantry in Germany mixed grape juice and anti-freeze. In the USSR, they filtered anti-freeze through gas masks and drank it straight. Many went blind as a result.

10\. The name _Liev_ means "lion-like, brave"; _Nikolai_ means "victory of the people".

A special thanks to Slovenskych for her help with this section.

 _Section Sources:  
_ AAHII  
 _Between Shades of Grey_ , by Ruta Sepetys (fiction, but it draws from real, individual stories of Lithuanian experiences in the _gulags._ )  
"The Hidden History Within Hetalia" – _Hetalia: World Series_ , season four, disc 2  
 _The History Buff's Guide to World War II_ , by Thomas R. Flagel  
"Human names" – Hetalia Archives  
 _KGB: The Inside Story_ , by Christopher Andrew and Oleg Gordievsky  
Primary Source  
 _WWII_

British Empire  
 **1\. Names:** I really debated in this section whether to use human names or nation names outside of dialogue. To me, the use of a human name denotes a relationship, where a formal nation name is polite and, even if the two are friends, is used in a formal setting, such as Arthur does with Matthieu in the meeting. I try to avoid using nation names outside of dialogue if I can help it. It makes them seem less human; on the other hand, using the nation name belies some of Arthur's apathy towards his colonies and brothers (in respect to his history with them individually, not collectively), so I decided to go with it this chapter. (The same was done with Gilbert and Ivan above.)

 **2\. Darwin:** The Japanese didn't intend to invade Australia, but they did consider it a threat and wanted to cut it off from the other Allies (hence, Port Moresby), so they began an extended series of bombing raids on Darwin, which was the only port able to reinforce the Allies. Five days after this conversation, however, three Japanese submarines would attack Sydney Harbour, sinking three merchant ships and killing nineteen sailors.

 **3\. New Zealand:** According to the Hetalia Archives, New Zealand has no official human name, so I picked one! _Oliver_ doesn't actually mean "olive tree". It comes from the Norse _Áleifr_ , meaning "ancestor's descendant". Given that, according to the archives, New Zealand is described as getting along with England and not wanting Australia's wild personality to ruin things for him, it seemed fitting that he would pick something that draws on England's influence in the hopes that Arthur might like him more.

 **4\. Desert War:** Firstly, their location: the Gazala Line was the Allies' defensive line by the time this takes place in late May, stretching 35 miles (55 km) from the Libyan coast to Bir Hakiem, which was a little Free French fort, and not very far from the Egyptian border. Cities and offensives changed hands _a lot_ in the war, but the front frequently went months without fighting, because the times that they did wiped out their supplies. Basically, when Erwin Rommel relieved the Italians in February 1941 and attacked in March, he pushed the British all the way back into Egypt, from whom the Italians had been driven out the previous December of 1940. That November, however, the British tried again, and pushed the Germans and Italians _back_ to their starting point in El Agheila, in western Libya. The following January, Rommel strikes again, and here we are, at the Gazala Line. What is beginning as the scene closes is not El Alamein; that comes in November.

British troops in the desert were diverse in terms of ethnicity, coming from all over their colonies, but the diversity included Polish troops. Poles formed an extensive arm in the British armed forces after much of their forces escaped with their governments to London. In the desert, the Polish Carpathian Divisions formed part of the Eighth Army.

 **5\. Egypt:** Remember the episode in season 6, set around this time in the desert, where America goes to introduce himself to the Egyptian natives and gets utterly rejected? The line of "I hate the British" is actually kind of true. Egyptians tolerated British presence in their country, having been a colony since 1882, but the king was ardently neutral. He refused to make any commitment to the Allied cause. This frustrated the British, and as defeats kept coming in and the behavior of the British troops got worse, tensions arose. It _is_ true that members of the political elite and the military wanted an Axis victory, probably due to this. Likewise, the bit about forcing King Farouk to elect a pro-British government is also true.

 **6\. India:** Around this time, India—"a huge masala of ethnic, linguistic and religious groups"—consisted of at least 565 "princely states" and groups directly administered by the British (Rodenbeck). Thus, the likelihood of India having more than one representative for each of the various groups is high—similar to the Native Americans, discussed in chapter three. If one had to be chosen to represent India at the table, the British Viceroy would most likely have had to choose.

 **7\. Canada** : No, I'm not sure if that statistic is true, but yes, U-Boats were in the St. Lawrence. Specifically, the lower river, the gulf, the Belle Isle Strait, Anticosti Island, the Cabot Strait, and Halifax Harbor. It was an extension of the Battle of the Atlantic, primarily aimed at shipments to Britain, but it is possible they were dropping off spies or trying to pick up POWs.

 **8\. Irish Issues:** Formerly a British possession, Ireland became the "Irish Free State" in 1922, and Northern Ireland was created the year before, after a ceasefire was declared on the island. Britain would not let Ireland become a Republic, but they offered Dominion status, putting the nation on equal standing with Canada, Australia, and South Africa.

Most people think that Northern Ireland is England's brother, but that doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me—especially if I'm going with the theory that nations are born from the womb. He would have come in so late—much later than the others—and given the closeness in time of their countries' development, Ireland being Arthur's brother seems more logical. Granted, I don't know much about early British history—the Gaels, the Picts, the Celts, etc.—but if you'd like to know more, head on over to Kimanda's story, _Behind the Mask._ She does a good job of explaining bits and pieces of Irish history.

Speaking of Ireland, _Èirinn_ is the Scottish Gaelic for Ireland. (If someone would like to provide the proper pronunciation for this, I would be grateful.)

I apologize, too, to any Irish or Northern Irish people reading this. I know the relationship between your lands is a sensitive topic, and that the idea of Ireland being the father of Northern Ireland may be disquieting.

 **9\. South Africa:** Cape of Good Hope Province, 1942 = South Africa, present-day (relatively).

In 1910, the Cape Colony, Natal, Transvaal, and Orange Free State were integrated into the Union of South Africa. The latter three were Boer Republics annexed by Britain, while the Cape Colony made up a good portion of South Africa proper. The reason thus for the fluctuation in South Africa's pigmentation in this section is because of the changes in area occupancy. It began in 1652 with a settlement by the Dutch East India Company, who engaged in slave trade with their other colonies in order to supplement labor for food and livestock. These are the people—both the Dutch and the transferred slaves—who became Afrikaners, or Boers. The native Khoekhoe (or Khoikhoi) seemed to get along relatively well with the Dutch settlers; it may have been a combination of interracial marriage and language nuances that developed the language Afrikaans, at least until disease killed thousands of Khoekhoe, and the remainder fled the area.

Great Britain did not come into the picture until 1795, when they seized the colony to keep it out of French hands—Holland's ally at the time—and permanently assumed rule in 1814. After that, there were a lot of boundary changes, republics established and demolished, frontier wars with the natives, etc. By the time this takes place, segregation was heavy in the area (including the denial of voting rights to Africans) and the Cape Province was economically outsized by the Transvaal. Domestic happiness wasn't very high.

"Sizwe" is an isiXhosa name meaning "nation". According to the Nelson Mandela Foundation, children of each individual clan receive a new name when they undergo "initiation" (a rite of passage to manhood) at the age of sixteen. By the time he would have physically reached that age, it might have been evident to South Africa's originating clan that he was important to something more. I'm not familiar with indigenous South African customs, so this tentative and absolutely open to change should anyone with knowledge like to inform me, but I chose the Xhosa (AmaXhosa) due to their inhabitation strictly in present-day South Africa.

 **10\. Madagascar:** Operation Ironclad (formerly called Bonus) was a precautionary takeover of the Vichy-French governed island following reasonable suspicion and paranoia that the Japanese intended to invade (to be fair, they did have submarines active in the Mozambique Channel on the west side, two of which damage the HMS _Ramillies_ two days after the Empire meeting). Thus, a plan was made and carried out on 5 May 1942. The Vichy French made a stand in the northern port cities for two days, until they saw destroyers come in under fire. Then they surrendered. But the governor (and, consequently, the rest of the island) refused, and contrary to what Arthur promises, British troops actually leave in June, leaving the job to South African, East African, and Northern Rhodesian (present-day Zambian) troops. Although there was aid sent in September, the operation went on for exactly six months in poor conditions before the governor finally surrendered on 5 November.

 _Section Sources:  
_ AAHII  
 _ALHC  
_ "All About History Book of the Victorians" – Imagine Publishing Ltd.  
"Cape Province" – Encyclopedia Britannica  
 _A Concise History of Australia,_ by Stuart Macintyre  
"Èire" – Wikipedia  
 _Franklin and Winston  
_ "Hissing cousins: Why India and Pakistan hate each other" – Max Rodenbeck, The Economist  
"History of South Africa" – Wikipedia  
"Human names" – Hetalia Archives  
"Irish Free State" - Wikipedia  
"Names" – Nelson Mandela Foundation  
"New Zealand" – Hetalia Archives  
"Sizwe" – Behind the Name website  
"Xhosa people" – Wikipedia  
 _WWII_

Quote Source: Goodreads—truly, the words were inspired by the Red Queen from Tim Burton's _Alice in Wonderland_ , but I don't think that's in public domain, so I can't quote it here.

So...that's a lot. I've edited and revised, but if you see any big mistakes, please don't hesitate to contact me.  
The next chapter will be a bit more along the lines of an M for two reasons: blood, and a little gore.  
Please be advised.


	8. Dreams and Hawks

**Dreams and Hawks**

" _Dreams, indeed, are ambition,  
_ _For the very substance of the ambitious is merely  
_ _The shadow of a dream."  
_ – William Shakespeare, _Hamlet_

 **21 JUNE 1942**

Blood filled his mouth; desert sands and ashes coated him in a film of grime. It fell into his eyes every time he tried to look, and eventually he grew so frustrated that only a feral roar could put an end to it. The dust and grit listened, slipping as a snake's from his skin, and he could finally survey the damage.

He'd turned the desert into a battlefield, something it was never meant to be. Death was supposed to come quietly here, wrap you in sandpaper arms and push you hard into the ground. It wasn't supposed to make you scream, or make you bleed. Your body simply disappeared, and your soul wore down in the whispers of the wind, carried through the lips of your family, if you had any.

It was _not_ supposed to be like this.

Arthur felt the unnatural truth gnaw on his skin as he looked around. Blood turned the burnished gold sands rusty red, scattered with bodies and broken machinery, the still remains of an army whose men he claimed only in name.

He stepped cautiously off the tarp and emerged from under the tent awning, feeling cold and numb in spite of the heat. His boots squelched in the sodden sands, and he looked down, wincing, dry-eyed even as inexplicable rage coursed through him. Already the desert was going to work erasing the violence, preserving the history for another time—glossing it over, as if it wasn't important now. It seeped through the indefinable layers, nourishment for the land.

War was a feast for the earth. Whatever spirit held people like him captive on this plane, she loved making them hate each other. In peacetime she starved otherwise. Arthur's hands clenched and relaxed.

Reluctantly, he swallowed against the urge to scream and crossed to the first body he saw. Paled. Dropped to his knees without concern for the blood saturating his skin.

Canada. Matthieu. His right leg was gone, but the stump it left had ceased bleeding, and when Arthur searched for a pulse, his skin held the clammy flaccidity of someone trying to stay cold in the heat. He had been long dead.

Brushing the hair from his blank eyes, Arthur found himself murmuring, "I'm sorry," before rising. The bodies all looked familiar now, and he couldn't take two steps without them suddenly appearing in all their horrifying clarity at his feet. Australia, Siam, Malaya, _Scotland_ —oh, God. Cape Province was nearby, staring eyeless at the sky. And then there was India, lying on his side, gutted. The organs were gone. Soulless in its emptiest sense.

 _I did that._ He'd tried to change them, force them to become different men. Men in his own image, after his own interests.

This was his fault.

Tears welled in his eyes as the smell of copper rose to his nose. He looked down to find his uniform soaked in their blood, his hands red instead of pale, with gore under his fingernails, and holding two slimy orbs. Eyes, dark eyes, their color near-black.

Sizwe's, and they burned like little suns. Finding it difficult to breathe, he dropped them and wiped his hands, only succeeding in making them redder. "No, no, no— _please_ , no," he begged, panic crawling, unbidden, up his throat. The more he wiped, the more the blood stained, changed his clothes until he started to see something new. Something whose weight fell heavily on his shoulders, made his skin scorch and itch in the blazing heat, alien and familiar all at once—

 _No._ He spun in a sharp circle, the folds of the old red wool coat swinging against his knees, searching blindly for the one face he was most afraid to see yet needed to find.

He was there, farthest from him and any of his colonies, on his back. His head twisted at an odd angle, exposing the mutilations to his mouth, and just beyond Arthur could see the blue coat soaked red. But the eyes remained untouched, staring straight at him. Empty, lightless, and blue like the sky.

Arthur didn't stop the scream this time. The tears fell over, he tried to run, but the body of his son never came any nearer. He tripped over the bodies, and it simply faded; Arthur screamed his name—

And woke up. Out of breath, his heart racing, but in the dark cabin, lulled by the rattling of the train under his back, free.

Arthur sat up in the small bed, the blankets falling back over a bare torso as he rubbed his hands over his face. He didn't bother to check whether his hands were actually covered in gore. It would only feed his paranoia and, well, it didn't matter. They were already covered in blood. It was like a second skin at this point.

That was one reason he'd given up wearing the red wool. The blood shed by his hands was all he could think of whenever he looked at it.

So he focused on breathing. In, and out. Let the conditioned air fill his lungs before pushing it back out. He still didn't have any cigarettes; he hadn't had time to replenish them after the Germans' surprise attack on the twenty-seventh, and the following weeks had simply been one disappointment after another. First, he and Ritchie thought they had them when they caught him in a Cauldron, until the Italians opened a corridor. Then the bloody Free sodding French abandoned Bir Hakiem, and that was it. There was nothing left that they could do, so Ritchie had left Sizwe in charge of the Tobruk garrison and retreated into Egypt.

At that point, he told Arthur to leave, and Auchinleck agreed. "Get the hell out of here. We need you alive, and you'll be more useful at the Prime Minister's side than in here in the desert."

"What do you need, then?"

"Tanks, more than anything." Auchinleck's face, normally so taut and his expressions reined in, had been openly dour. His gaze, distant. "We need tanks if we're going to beat Jerry once and for all."

Between the summons and the two generals' consent, there was no question that he was leaving, but as Arthur had transported himself home, he had to force himself not to feel guilty. Not only would it muck up the outcome of his destination (space was flimsy when you were between two places at once), but Auchinleck was right. The stalemate had been resuming when he left, and he would have been little use when there were other theaters to tend to. He only just made it to Hyde Park in time for the Tube Alloys conversation with Churchill, Roosevelt and his aide Hopkins.

Nonetheless, when he thought of Auchinleck's dire tone, their men's uncertain faces and unclear fates, and his colonies fighting valiantly in a war that wasn't theirs, the guilt bent Arthur's back. It did now as his hands dropped heavily between his knees, and he bowed his head.

Ordinarily, he wore a shirt to bed, but the two days since his return hadn't worn the edge of war and desert heat; it stifled him as much as the darkness of the cabin, but just enough moonlight slanted through the curtains over the window to stay his scotophobia and expose the pale swaths of skin marred by the smooth sheen of scars. They swam across his ribcage, sliced over his shoulders, and stabbed him in the back. One on the outside of his left wrist was shaped like the letter _P_ , a three-hundred-year-old brand betraying his dead piratical habits. Centuries of wars and strife could be found on his skin, but Arthur overlooked them all.

All he saw were bones—bones, and bandages. He could feel the skin pull across the knob of his spine, felt the thin muscle rub along his arms as he stretched, pull taut across his chest when he breathed. The skeleton of a collapsing Empire.

Oddly, Matthieu's face came to mind at the thought, perhaps because it had been so strange to see him bearing a firearm or wearing such fierce loyalty as he pulled the trigger. Many times, he'd seen similar expressions on his other colonies—even Oliver's, tiny though he was—but more often it was directed towards him. Quite a surprise it was, then, that they were willingly fighting in his name—most of them. _Killing_ in his name.

Arthur dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, the strands of his disheveled hair catching between them and jabbing at his corneas. He thought of the dream, of Sizwe's sightless gaze.

Of why Alfred's had been left untouched. Why had they remained intact?

Out of all of them, he should have been the one most maimed.

Arthur sank against the window, the glass cool on his hot skin, its kiss sinking through to his bones. The journey wasn't far, and just as sure as the train would reach Washington, D.C. by morning, so Arthur could be certain that he would not sleep until then. He would spend the time channeling the feelings of those locked in North Africa, trying to see what came next.

* * *

Churchill's bellowing laughter echoed all the way into the hall, latching itself onto every corner edge and hole in the President's Study, as though the wood and plaster needed to feel his joviality as much as human beings did. Even Roosevelt smiled wanly. For his part, rather than setting Arthur on edge, the brief spurt of happiness refreshed him. He hadn't felt anything akin to it in months, and while it wasn't enough to displace the guilt lingering in the back of his head, at least Roosevelt had been kind enough to part with a cigarette for him to mull it over with.

Arthur had been positively beaten down when the train steamed into Washington that Sunday morning, emerging with an uncharacteristic stumble from the rail carriage. Worse, his clothes were wrinkled, a fact Matthieu would surely take notice of when he joined them later.

It wasn't often that he let in his peoples' thoughts and opinions—he had learned to shut them out entirely around Elizabeth's time—but when he did, returning them back to their box drained him. It usually required a knife and blood. Something about the physical expulsion of a piece of himself from his body gave him the strength he needed; the proof was under his jacket sleeve that very moment, in the stinging wounds and stitches that pulled whenever he extended his left arm. He'd cut deeper than he intended, forgetting that he wasn't as muscled as he had been, and that had started the process all over again. He wound up with three cuts before dawn.

Arthur did his best not to think of them now, trying to relax and tune out conversation for the first time since…well, he couldn't pinpoint a specific date, but it had been some time.

His attempts to sink into his chair were why, when the secretary brought in a telegram, it took him longer than it should have to register the news.

"Tobruk has surrendered."

Arthur's eyes opened slowly, unwillingly. Every man in the room had gone still. Some smiles remained plastered humorlessly on faces, but Roosevelt's gaze was on the alarmingly pink paper, thin-lipped and grim, and Churchill stared point-blank, open-mouthed, for a long beat before he managed, "H – how—?"

"Twenty-five thousand men were taken prisoner," the President finished, as if he'd been waiting for someone to speak in order to remind them whose voice mattered. Given his ability with masks, he could have been equally as shocked underneath, and someone else's attempt at speech was the only thing that could prompt him.

Churchill, on the other hand, seemed to collapse and fold into the chair, one meaty hand gripping the arm with white knuckles as the other slid the cigar from his lips. Utter astonishment froze his pale eyes where they stared on the desk. "Dear God… This is…this—"

"A bitter moment—a deeply bitter moment," Lord Ismay supplied. His liaison to the military chiefs of staff looked equally as thrown. If Arthur hadn't seen events like this happen before, he would have been pushed outside himself, too. As it was, he straightened in his seat and reached for the scotch.

Sizwe had led thirty-five thousand men in that garrison. Australia, though his men were no longer guarding it, chose to stay behind and help. If they were among the captured, they would be able to escape. Maybe alone, maybe with some of their men, but they would escape, so long as Rommel didn't find out who they were.

Arthur prayed he wouldn't. To whom or what, he couldn't offer a name, just to _something._ He didn't expect that something to listen, but it was worth a try. Better than no faith at all.

 _So I'm naïve because I have faith?_

Arthur flinched and nearly groaned when a younger Alfred's face shoved to the surface, absent a mouth and vacant-eyed. _Dammit._ Now was not the time for that, even if he had been recalling more and more of the argument in the past days—the thing he had studiously tried to avoid by going into Africa, but his mind would not let him forget. It seemed it was to be a memory he would cherish forever.

Roosevelt looked up as Arthur set two full tumblers in front of Churchill and Ismay, casting a glance of candid gratitude in his direction. Arthur acknowledged it with a bare nod, and the President turned to his British equivalent.

"What can we do to help?"

If it was possible to hold an entire nation's empathy and channel it through the voice of one man, Roosevelt did it better than Alfred could ever have managed. That much compassion would have gone with the captured soldiers instead of the man in charge. Not to mention he would have said too much.

But Arthur knew how it felt to be in the lead and yet feel so powerless, and he was only hesitantly ashamed by how deeply in those few dark, silent moments he considered letting his troops' emotions inside again. As he poured the scotch, he almost undid the lock, almost pushed the doors open, even knowing what the gnawing fear in the banging and scraping on the other side contained for him.

He came too close. The glass bottle jerked from his shaking fingers and crashed onto the table. He cursed and righted it quickly, feeling the semi-hostile stares of several aides behind him, but the sudden break in introspective silence must have jarred Churchill back to himself, because his voice was clear and pensive when he spoke.

"Give us as many Sherman tanks as you can spare, and ship them to the Middle East as soon as possible." Churchill sighed, the heavy walrus sound of a deflated soul. "Why would they give in? These were _experienced_ soldiers—there were even some representations among their number, weren't there?"

"Yes," Arthur answered, depositing the remaining tumblers into empty hands. "But even under the best of circumstances…" He paused. Shouldn't Churchill already know this? Perhaps he was too shocked to think of it, and it bore noticing that he hadn't been in Africa to see the damage for himself.

"What circumstances? Dammit, Britain, don't try my patience this moment! I've had near enough of all these defeats!" Churchill's tone in the threat lacked any real power, but Arthur had little desire to see him pushed over the edge. They needed him thinking ahead, not back—as he himself should be.

"The war in desert halts and goes, Winston," said Arthur, pausing at his chair and crossing his arms. He had the attention of everyone in the room. Good. "Jerry strikes, we retreat, it stops. _We_ strike, Jerry retreats, and the war stops again. The stress is hard on the men—especially those unaccustomed to the heat—and if the Germans had enough supplies to drag themselves that far from their base in _El Agheila_ , it makes sense that they shan't have stopped until they had Tobruk to replenish them. They lost it once because the city held for eight months on its own. Did you honestly think they would let it slip past again if it was available to them?"

"But these were men of renown, practiced against the Huns! Twenty-five _thousand_ of them! That's ten less than the garrison itself! I d–don't understand, if they won't fight—" Churchill sputtered, and Arthur watched the sense of his words pass through and latch onto his stunned brain. It filled his eyes with, if possible, a dimmer light, and then he rounded on Roosevelt. "How soon can your people have those tanks?"

Without alteration in his oddly unveiled sympathy, Roosevelt turned to Lord Ismay. "Would you have my secretary fetch General Marshall, please? He should be able to give us an approximate time of shipment."

"Of course, Mr. President." Rising, Ismay left. As he passed through the doorway, Arthur glimpsed movement of something in the hall—something that wasn't Ismay—and followed cautiously, largely ignored now that he'd paid his two-pence worth of knowledge. Arthur was grateful; if anyone had seen his hand straying to the knife tucked into his belt, they would have sounded the alarm.

As it was, he stepped into the hall unnoticed and shut the door silently behind him, listening for a sound.

 _There._ Two feet behind him, shuffling on the runner. He pulled out the knife, palming it in his left hand. Given the angle, there wasn't any way he would be able to surprise the loiterer with the knife in his right. Spy, servant, whatever his occupation, Arthur would make quite clear the poor choice he'd made in attempting to eavesdrop on two world leaders.

He whirled, the hall becoming a blur as he grabbed the collar of the perpetrator and shoved him against the wall. There was a thud, an _oof_ , and then Arthur's blade was at his throat and he was snarling, "You'd better have a damn good reason for being in this corridor. I'm not feeling particularly merciful at the moment, so think before you answer."

"Um, I was coming for dinner?"

Arthur blinked, only then registering the face behind the glasses. "Matthieu."

His Dominion nodded, then winced. "Yeah, can you let go? You're cutting skin."

"Oh, right." Arthur dropped the knife and his collar, and Matthieu bent forward on his knees, coughing. Arthur sheathed his weapon while he waited, taking the moment to assess his condition. Even in his bent stance, Matthieu favored his left leg. The right had nearly risked amputation earlier that month when a detonated bounding mine embedded shrapnel down to the bone. Between Arthur and the doctors on hand, most of it had been removed, but the healing process was painful. Matthieu had blacked out more than once when he put too much weight on it, and Arthur forced him to return home after the third incident.

Why was he here now? The thought struck Arthur as urgent, as if putting it off meant he lost control over Matthieu's safety, and Française would never forgive him if he was seriously hurt.

Nor would Alfred, come to think of it, and the relationship Churchill so desperately wanted would vanish forever.

When he straightened up, exposing the fast-healing red welt Arthur's knife left on his neck, Matthieu grunted, "What's got you so on edge? Haven't turned off the war yet?"

Arthur's grin was bitter. "Tobruk's surrendered."

Matthieu's shock wasn't as pronounced, but it was there underneath the dull pain flickering in his face. "You're kidding."

Arthur shook his head mutely.

 _Fuck,_ Matthieu mouthed, raking a hand through his hair. It wasn't quite like his brother's, more the color of honey than wheat, and curlier, but the similarities in the thickness of the strands and the part lines were impossible to miss.

Pushing out the thought of what Alfred might be doing at this moment, he said drily, "Almighty on High doesn't approve of that language, you know."

Matthieu shot him a look. "He can deal with it, and stop making fun of my religion."

Arthur quirked an eyebrow. "I had no intention—"

"Are you really going to stand here and lie to me? Française's Catholic. Of course you are."

Arthur sighed. So much for lightening the load. "If this is about my comments in Africa—"

"No, I'm not mad about that. If the Vichy French are being a pain, that makes sense. I'm just…shocked. _Shit_ , did Tobruk _really_ surrender? What's next, the Suez Canal?" Matthieu tried shifting his weight and ended up pitching forward with a strangled cry. Arthur barely caught him in time to keep himself from falling with him. Matthieu was much heavier nowadays than he used to be, both from his gains and Arthur's losses; the latter's heart dropped at the thought.

How long before he fell altogether and didn't get back up?

Shoving Matthieu back against the wall, Arthur gasped, "Aren't we pessimistic today. You're usually full of hopeful aphorisms. It's annoying."

His Dominion snorted, a response that took more labor than it should have. "Honestly, it's been hard to without Alfred here to inspire them."

That gave Arthur pause enough to realize he was right. Since their arrival, the White House had seemed oddly quiet and…lonely. Like it was missing a vital piece of its self. Hyde Park, with all of its tobacco smoke and touches of individual human beings, hadn't felt so empty.

Here, in the place where men and women came and went, birthed and died, and only one remained, ever constant, it was as if the House had lost its foundation. Its purpose. Its mother.

It felt cold; the ghosts were emerging from the walls. Suppressing a shudder, Arthur forced himself to ask the only thing that would put them back.

"How is he?"

He wasn't sure whether he wanted to know the answer or not. All he knew was that he thought it would help, and if Matthieu was surprised by the question, he hid it well.

"He's…okay. They boosted him out of Pre-Flight Training back in late February, and he passed through Primary in April. I think he's getting ready to graduate out of Basic next week."

Arthur could swear he felt the mansion settle around them, as of a fiancée or wife receiving news of her lost love after he spent years on the seas, but it only gave him anger.

He'd thought months apart after such a rancorous reunion would have given him perspective, granted him the acceptance he needed in order to cooperate with the United States, but he could barely hear the name without resentment rising like disgusting bile in his throat.

With clenching and relaxing fists, Arthur remarked, "Congratulate him for me." Then, like the petulant child he knew he was being, he started off down the hall. The stomps his shoes should have been making were muffled on the runner.

Consequently, rather than heavy, off-kilter steps, the only way he knew Matthieu had followed him was by the sharp intakes of breath every two seconds. "Hang on, Arthur, please? _Ow,_ dammit— _Arthur_!"

Only because he asked so nicely, Arthur paused, crossed his arms, and waited.

Matthieu was out of breath by the time he caught up in the open parlor of the main corridor, and those he was taking were strung through pain, Arthur could tell. It was unnatural for him, and despite how he felt about his brother, Arthur started to soften.

"Do we need to check your leg again?"

"Might not be—a bad idea," he gasped. When Matthieu grasped his breath enough to speak without pausing, he fixed Arthur with a look that reminded him pathetically of Française in the rare times he was harried and firm. He grimaced, but it was better than the alternative.

"Look, I know I'm the interlocutor in a lot of this stuff, and that's what Roosevelt and Churchill want me to be, but between you and Alfred, I am running _ragged_ trying to mediate. At this point, none of us are asking you to play nice. It doesn't matter, because he's not here. He's in Texas. But it would be nice if you didn't get pissed every time his name comes into a conversation, because what you said to New Zealand last month was uncalled for."

"What—?"

" 'How would you like to be invaded? That can surely be arranged if you stick round long enough for Jerry to see you'," Matthieu inserted, in an uncannily good imitation of Arthur's irritation. That was a mark for the man he'd mimicked to tread carefully. Like his brother, Matthieu was slow to anger, but it was never pleasant when they did. The fact that Arthur had in a matter of months managed to frustrate both of them to the brink of yelling was sheer achievement.

Then again, Matthieu didn't normally curse so much, either. Was his injury that cumbersome, or was there something else going on?

"Did you see Oliver's face when you said that?" he asked now—demanded, more like. "It fell like you'd told him you were forcing independence. He's still upset about that."

Arthur huffed, pretending he hadn't heard the _I_ word. "That's absurd—"

"Is it? Like it or not, some of your colonies actually look up to you, Arthur."

"You didn't." It was a weak response, but Matthieu's statement had recalled the dream, and it took everything in him not to reveal how much they both hurt. His colonies could die if he so desired; it would be a systematic cleansing, replacing their men with his. They wouldn't realize they were dying until it was too late, their eyes and skin colorless, but why would he ever want to do that? Why would he want to give them up?

Perhaps more importantly, why had he colonized them at all, instead of treating them equally through trade and treatises?

"No, I didn't look up to you," Matthieu conceded. "That's because I was raised by France."

"Remind me, why was that?" said Arthur flatly.

Matthieu pressed his lips together, debating whether to take the bait. They both knew what the proper answer was: _Because you believed in France, not me_ , and even when the country he seemed to love so much gave his Canadian lands away willingly in order to retain his sugar colonies, Française would not give up Matthieu. That was the agreement they made in 1759 when Matthieu tried to sacrifice himself for Française on the battlefield plains, his face smeared with the blood of the Frenchman Arthur had run through seconds earlier. Arthur had almost run him through, the bayonet a mere inch from his narrow chest when sense finally brought it to a stop.

"This isn't right," he'd shouted, all traces of his soft-spoken nature gone in the early morning light. "You always fight. Can't you set your hatred aside for once, for me? _Please_? It hurts when you kill on my land."

"It isn't your land, Matthew, nor is it your fight, now _stay out of the way_ ," Arthur snarled back. He saw the fear flit across the boy's face, as if he thought Arthur might run him through anyway. He would admit that he considered it.

But Matthieu would not back down. His long-fingered adolescent hands clenched, a stubbornness that he had only seen on his younger brother taking shape in every part of him.

That, more than anything, convinced Arthur to lower his weapon. But he could not hold the fury that broiled inside him as he said, "Do you pledge yourself to his side?"

Wariness lived only a second in his eyes before he jerked a nod.

Arthur's fingers cracked the browned steel of the barrel, and he felt warm blood slide down his hand. His own. "Very well, then—don't bother coming back to Boston."

He didn't stay to let Matthieu argue, but he couldn't turn quickly enough to miss the sheer cruelty of his words sink in. On the ground behind him, Française looked murderous.

Who would have thought, someone preferred the Frog over the Black Sheep. That someone had been passing information to him about battle movements, too, he'd discovered later, and was the biggest reason why the war began so miserably for his side. Matthieu, thankfully, had learned to keep secrets since then.

But when he finally chose to answer, the response Arthur received was not one he'd anticipated—although, in truth, he should have.

"It was obvious who mattered to you more, and it wasn't me."

Arthur blinked. Matthieu stared back, a muscle in his cheek twitching in pain. When they were younger, the two brothers had been difficult to tell apart. An age difference of nine months meant they changed and grew near-simultaneously, a frustration aided by the exploration and floods of immigration. Arthur, then, had made a point to study the differences, and one of the first things he noticed was that their eyes had never changed. Even when the pigmentation did, Alfred's remained bright and curious, but Matthieu's were calmer, calculative. That was what they did now as they scanned Arthur's face, so deep a blue they were almost purple.

But when he thought of how pale they had been in the dream, bleached by the sun, Arthur couldn't hold them. He turned away.

He never heard Matthieu cry that day in September, but at the peace negotiations later, Française told him how he worried about his brother, how on some nights he couldn't sleep for his fear, and that living so far away in Paris made him uneasy.

"You have done this to him, _Angleterre_ , you understand this, _oui_?" Française's eyes glinted dangerously.

And Arthur…he was sorry, yes, that he'd separated the boys, but he'd felt nothing for Matthieu's welfare. He'd been too upset that the boy had betrayed him, and he hadn't cared.

Matthieu was right. He never cared for him as much as he should have, and he had offered the same neglect to his colonies over the past century. Consciously.

He wouldn't apologize for his actions, but for as little gratitude as Matthieu had been given for his efforts, he deserved attention now. "Does Al…does he know about your leg?" he asked, quietly.

Matthieu's shoulders slid outward, losing some of their tension. "No. I haven't been to see him since the attack. I thought about going up for my First and his Fourth, but…" He caught sight of Arthur's white knuckles and stopped, adding only, "We'll see."

Arthur nodded jerkily. The White House was satisfied, steaming like pudding in her comfort. Fighting against the urge to yell at the walls like a madman who saw ghosts, he mumbled, "We should get back."

"Lead the way."

Arthur spared him a glance and started back the way they came, pausing only to ascertain Matthieu could walk. It didn't happen easily, every step full of suppressed winces and bitten lips; he was clearly in a lot of pain. Too much. He could take Arthur's chair in the Study, but the second it was over, he was checking that leg.

When he opened the door, unleashing the heady smell of tobacco within, the first thing he heard was Churchill groaning, "What I wouldn't give for your American lad right now… He'd know how to cheer us up."

Arthur gnashed his teeth, but it was true. Alfred may have been a right twat, but he knew how to charm Churchill into forgetting about the war—he knew how to make Arthur forget, because he was too absorbed in his attempts at not caring about him or their past…

He shook his head. Couldn't the world let him well enough alone for one bleeding minute?

Of course not. That would be too easy.

Offering a grin that begged Arthur to behave, Matthieu limped past and was swept inside with subdued greetings.

Right. Tobruk. North Africa. _Focus_. The world needed him to right now—Sizwe and Australia needed him to, if only for long enough to set them free.

* * *

 **JULY 1942**

Matthieu was back in Ottawa for a week before he planned another trip. Yes, he did want to see Alfred—more for his own sake than his brother's. Despite how often he wrote that he missed Matthieu, and how frustratingly slow the program felt, it was clear that he was enjoying flying. Matthieu expected it, and he was pleased; Alfred deserved a little light-hearted freedom, even if the last time they journeyed to California had been when he was still a narcissistic ass. He'd changed quite a bit since then, grown into something of an adult.

Privately, Matthieu couldn't be more relieved. He'd grown tired of having to stomach his invalidating attitude.

Nonetheless, he couldn't shake the feeling that he hadn't really thought through what he was doing when he left for the Air Forces. It nagged at him anytime he ventured across the border or the States came up in conversation, akin to a feeling of having let his most precious treasure fall into irresponsible hands. At the thought, Matthieu's hand strayed automatically to the chain of wampum beads around his neck.

That worry was why he visited Alfred on the base so often. He'd seen him perhaps a dozen times since he left last January. Every time, Alfred reassured him he was fine, he was having a good time. But still Matthieu felt uneasy.

Sighing, he released the smoothed beads and resumed packing, digging in his drawers for something light enough for a California summer. Alfred had been transferred to Santa Ana after graduating from Basic Training last Friday—just in time for the national holidays. It didn't mean he had a break (in wartime? definitely not), but it gave Matthieu had a viable excuse to see him, and at least they would have something to celebrate. Neither of them, as far as he knew, had been out there since the Gold Rush in the 1850s; it would be nice to see for themselves how the land had developed.

Matthieu winced slightly—both from the thought and the pain that shot through his leg as he stood. He wasn't certain how he was going to explain his leg injury to Alfred, but he knew his brother wouldn't take anything but the truth. No fibs, no lies. Just tell him straight, and he would help you. He'd learned that trait the hard way when he first needed glasses.

Still…he almost missed the days when things were simpler, when he and his brother weren't susceptible to the lures of vanity and wealth. When their mother woke them each morning with a kiss and asked what they dreamt about, what they thought it meant. Matthieu didn't miss the struggles, but he missed the community, the faith and love between the Massachuset. Nothing about their colonization, or anything afterward, offered that same net of safety—not even the blind patriotism people like Churchill insisted would carry them through. Not the necessity of a common cause that people like Sam Adams had once spouted with vituperating praise.

As he rolled his clothes into the suitcase, the beads were a welcome chill against his skin. He'd had to discard the leather strip eons ago, but the necklace _was_ his most precious treasure. It was the last piece of his mother he had. Alfred had one similar, once, but his held a chipped arrowhead instead of wampum.

He lost it, 161 years ago now.

When a knock came at his door, Matthieu—lost in the depths of his bathroom, gathering supplies—called, "Come in!"

He heard the door open, and then a beat of silence. "Mr. Williams?"

"Bathroom. What's wrong, William?" A genuine grin grew on Matthieu's lips as he listened to the Canadian Prime Minister shake off his discomfort and confusion. It wasn't an uncommon reaction from him; Matthieu simply had a way of making him uncomfortable, and he wasn't certain what it was other than how his easygoing attitudes seemed to distract from his wily competitiveness. Neither persona changed much in wartime, just grew a bit more forceful.

"I have a telegram from the American President, Mr. Williams."

Frowning, Matthieu set down the shaving soap and emerged from the bathroom to see Mackenzie King hovering by the closed door, looking discomfited. That wasn't a good sign. "What does it say?"

"That's what I don't understand," he answered, holding it out, printed-side up. In proportion to the white background, the black ink had no advantage. "It makes no sense, but it's addressed directly to you, so if you'd care to explain, that would be appreciated."

Matthieu quirked an eyebrow. He made the request sound like Canada's personification was an undisciplined child—one who engaged in secret correspondence with another parent, no less, and needed to be reminded who was his real mother.

Right. Matthieu understood that Mackenzie had thoroughly enjoyed being middle-man between America and Britain early in the war, but this was a little unnecessary.

With a disgruntled look in his direction, he took the gram, reading quickly and silently.

HAWK HAS LEFT A SIGN FOR TONIGHT.

That was all. Matthieu turned the telegram over as if he expected an explanation, but he knew better than to expect one. It was _Roosevelt_ he was talking about. He would simply _expect_ him to know.

So who was Hawk? Alfred? No, he wouldn't have felt the need to conceal his presence at the White House _that_ well, and he was known as _Eagle Two_ in telecommunications.

Hang on. The day Alfred left had been the Adamic dinner, and the day his brother had asked him to take his position in the private intelligence meetings with Ludwig.

Churchill had compared the Germans to hawks that night. And Roosevelt's memory was impeccable. If he could recall with perfect clarity meeting Churchill in 1918, he would remember the things he said, which meant…

Matthieu cursed under his breath, and Mackenzie King's eyes lit up eagerly. "What is it? Do you understand it?"

"Yes, and I…can't tell you. It's confidential." He winced as he looked up, anticipating the thinly veiled annoyance that shown in his Prime Minister's face. Canada had undoubtedly been sidelined in this fight, and Mackenzie King didn't like it one bit.

That was fine, for now. Matthieu would work out a lie for him later. Since Alfred left, communication had been silent from that end of the Atlantic; Matthieu had begun to wonder if he would ever have to deal with his German equivalent.

Turns out, he didn't have a choice. He needed to get to Washington. Tonight.

He sighed, looking at his half-full suitcase lying open on the duvet. His brother would have to wait.

* * *

Footnotes:

1\. In June 1942, Churchill flew into the States for a short, week-long conference with Roosevelt, primarily discussing the question of whether to open a second front in France or focus on Africa, but they also discussed the progress being made on the atom bomb ("Tube Alloys"), which led to the consolidation of research from both countries into the Manhattan Project.

2\. A "cauldron" is a field tactic comprised of a tight defensive circle. In this case, Rommel was surrounded by a minefield and staving off British attack. Among them were bounding mines, comprised of metal fragments inside steel mortar shells that were buried underground. When triggered, they shot into the air and detonated at about waist height.

3\. Even though Arthur blames the French for abandoning their Bir Hakiem fortress, they were actually driven out by an Italian division on 10 June.

4\. "Jerry" was the British term for the Germans in World War II.

 **5\. Tobruk:** Placing Sizwe in charge of the Tobruk garrison honors the fact that most of the troops in the garrison were South African and would therefore be more likely to listen to him.

The telegram that Roosevelt receives states that 25,000 men were taken prisoner. In reality, it was 32,000 – 33,000; two thousand more, and they would have taken the entire garrison. _Franklin and Winston_ later quotes Churchill on that same night relaying the latter number to his personal physician, Lord Moran, which tells me they were receiving frequent updates on Africa's condition.

Losing this port city was a _big_ blow for Churchill and for morale; Robert Sherwood, who's written a biography on Roosevelt and Churchill's relationship, wrote that "it was another Sinapore" (Meacham 184). Lord Moran compared it to the loss of the _Prince of Wales_ and the _Repulse_ last December (187). The reason for such a severe reaction was because people in-the-know expected at that point that Rommel would be unstoppable, that his troops would get through Egypt and drill into the Middle East. They anticipated a German-Japanese union in Asia to be imminent, and it scared them.

6\. "Between Arthur and the doctors on hand" refers to an idea that Arthur is trained as a field medic. Personally, I think he and Matthieu would like to train for that, and for this war in particular. Matthieu would want to be in the line of fire, but I don't think he's a fan of guns—or any weapon, for that matter—and being a field medic would allow him to help people. Arthur's reasons might be a bit more selfish, but I believe he would consider it his duty to help, as well.

 **7\. Alfred:** At this time, the training of an Air Force cadet was set up in stages, each ten-weeks long: Classification (one-week), Pre-Flight, Primary, Basic, Advanced, followed by a transitional stage in which crews and fighter pilots trained in the planes they would be using in combat. Training was a long process that took at least a year to complete, and it involved a lot of rules and guidelines, which is part of the reason standards were so high and strict. You needed to be able to remember the stuff you were taught and apply it in action.

"He's in Texas" refers to the flight school he's training in—probably Midland, or Randolph Field, in San Antonio. Being transferred after graduating from a stage wasn't uncommon, I'm pretty sure; bases and training centers did it to clear up space in their facilities, so for the Advanced stage, Al's headed to the Santa Ana AAF base in California. Much of this is guesswork and inference from my sources, and that means I'm open for correction.

 **8\. 1759:** The memory revolves around the Battle of the Plains of Abraham (Quebec) mentioned in chapter five. As stated then, I believe Matthieu would ultimately be raised by France—and the dialogue above details why.

9\. Wampum held symbolic importance for many Eastern Woodland Native Americans. A white or purple shell bead carved from a Western Atlantic species of clam, it was used to make belts that served as compensation for a murder victim. As the practice suggests, it was a form of currency between several peoples in the region, eventually exchanged with European settlers. It also had ceremonial uses and served as a record-keeping device of treaties and agreements. As for why Matthieu has a recreational necklace, it took skill to make the shells, and that means some of them were bound to be broken or unusable. So, like Alfred's chipped arrowhead, Matthieu has a bead necklace cobbled together from bits and pieces.

 _Chapter Sources:  
_ AAHII  
 _ALHC  
_ "Aviation Cadet Training Program (USAAF)" – Wikipedia  
 _The Founding of the United States 1763 – 1815_ , by Gerry and Janet Souter, edited by Richard D. Brown  
"The Gold Rush of 1849" – History Channel website  
 _Franklin and Winston  
_ "Northeast Indian" – Elizabeth Prine Pauls, Elisabeth Tooker, Encyclopedia Britannica  
 _Unbroken  
_ _USAAF Handbook: 1939 – 1945,_ by Martin W. Bowman  
"Wampum" – Encyclopedia Britannica  
 _WWII_

This is short by comparison, I know. After the stress of the last chapter, I wanted something simpler. In the meantime, however, I have been inspired! A WWII oneshot, and a companion to this story, "The Cost of Capitulation" has been published. It tells the French surrender in 1940 from France's POV. If that sounds interesting to you, I hope you enjoy it!


	9. Trust Me

**Trust Me**

" _Trust me, to the bitter end."_

\- Franklin Delano Roosevelt, 14 January 1942

 **2 JULY 1942**

 _Is he coming?_

It was well past midnight in the expanse of grounds beyond Constitution Avenue, half past the agreed-upon time to meet, and Ludwig was having trouble not letting his thoughts stray to the worst possible scenarios: Alfred had been caught leaving; the President was grilling him for information, testing the truth of his allegiances; he'd given Ludwig up, and there were men on their way to apprehend him as he waited against the trunk of the largest tree he could find, hiding in the shadows…

Perhaps they would use Alfred as bait, lure him into a false sense of security—

 _Shut up. Alfred won't let them._

He hoped.

Ludwig's sigh came out as a growl, and he ran a hand over the tight muscles in his face, trying without much success to smooth them out. This insatiable paranoia was going to be the death of him one day soon if he didn't stop this damn war. Quickly nearing the equivalent of his superiors, encouraging fear as prevalent as Feliciano's, he wouldn't be much use to the Allies if he couldn't get it under control.

 _If._

How could such a simple word, so dependent on God or fate, scare him so much?

His palm was sweaty; he could feel the perspiration slide down his fingers as he dropped them. Ludwig had known, long ago, that summers were hot here, and they seemed to have only grown warmer in the last 164 years. The land had developed, too—extensively. When he first saw the White House last Christmas, its snowy color showered in a golden nimbus from the tree lights, Ludwig could understand how so many people described this place as a beacon. He wasn't a sentimental man—not often—and he hadn't had time to pause and admire the sight that night, but—for a second—it gave him hope.

Now, waiting near the southern edge of the grounds, shrouded from the street, he could see the glow of the Washington Monument's alabaster skin in the moonlight. It wasn't far from where he stood—maybe a few hundred meters. As always, he had no time to visit, but it posed a calming light to wait by.

Ludwig remembered General Washington himself quite clearly from his time here—most notably, that he was tall. Taller than France, even, which said more than it probably should have for the future of America and the sheer size it would become. He stopped conversations when he walked in a room or rode into an encampment, towering over others. Compared to Ludwig's eight-year-old body, his height had been terrifying.

But—and this was the second thing he remembered—Alfred had looked up to him. Gilbert had groused often about his poor military techniques, and Ludwig, despite knowing little English, could tell the failures and shortcomings wore on Alfred's nerves, but they never shook his resolve in the fight. Not really.

Tall but scrawny, the image of a boy screaming at his troops would have been humorous were it not for the fierce light Ludwig had seen in him. He maintained a determined brightness few others had, including Gilbert. _That_ , Ludwig had been relieved to see, had not changed when they met last December. For the second time that night, he'd felt hope.

Moreover, the time spent on this soil taught Ludwig heavily about the stakes of war and the commitment one had to give, more so than any verbal lessons Gilbert used to spare him the ugliness of the truth. Once he was committed, he couldn't look back, and he'd learned that he had to choose his sacrifices, be they people, equipment, or land. He had to decide what he was willing to lose in order to gain.

That was Hitler's mistake: there was no losing, only winning. And it would be the death of them all, the death of everything in his country, if he didn't shorten that list.

A snap of a branch had him at attention faster than the echo carried. His hand flew to the pistol holstered at his hip, instinct screaming for him to arm himself, but he didn't, not yet—not until he knew what he was up against. He would face much worse consequences than the discovery that he was German if he pulled a gun on a pedestrian.

"Who is there?" he called, remembering only at the last second to use an American accent. It came out clipped, but that was fine. Let the person think he was angry. He'd let his guard down resting against that tree, losing himself in fond memories of a no less trying time, and he hoped sincerely that he wasn't about to pay for it. Justifying his paranoia—wouldn't that be a brilliant way to cement his doubts? And in the States, no less, where it should have been safe.

A slender silhouette materialized from the north side of the trunk, holding his hands palm-up, and a calm voice advised, "Don't draw. You shoot, and you'll have quite a few more people to answer to than the police."

"I haven't—" Ludwig stopped, cleared his throat, and demanded, " _Who are you?_ I will not ask again." He couldn't detect any discernable effort towards a guise. The result was that the voice was similar, but smoother, softer, and more articulate. The words didn't slur the way an American accent tended to.

Which meant it wasn't Alfred; it wasn't American at all.

Ludwig didn't know whether he should be worried by that information.

Never mind that. He was _definitely_ worried.

In the dark, his ears picked up the shallow smirk in the shadow's amusement. "Easy, Ludwig. It's Matthieu—Al's brother. Remember me?"

 _No,_ at first. But then the silhouette stepped into the moonlight, revealing a narrow, heart-shaped face and round glasses. Those weren't familiar, but the face was. It was one Ludwig's memories placed during his time here before, one he found frequently beside Alfred and France. Age had given them difference, but the near-identical features that had once confused Ludwig could still be glimpsed. He wasn't lying.

Regardless, his fingers stayed near the pistol. "You are Britain's Dominion. Why are you here, and where is Alfred?" _Are the Allies in worse shape than is projected?_ He didn't dare linger on the idea. The possibility that Britain—or anyone else—hadn't taken kindly to Alfred's leniency was too real and too frightening to consider thoroughly.

"Straight to business. Good. At least I know you're not stalling." Matthieu shoved his hands in his pockets, and Ludwig's jerked to the handle. A genteel smile wound up Matthieu's cheeks as his gaze swept down to the holster. "I'm not here to hurt you, Ludwig. I promised Al I wouldn't turn you in."

"Truth has a way of getting lost in transfer," Ludwig riposted.

Matthieu lifted an eyebrow. "Fair enough. If you won't take my word, how about this?" His hand moved too quickly for Ludwig to catch, but by the time he'd palmed the gun and aimed, he could clearly see that a folded scrap of paper was the only present threat. Clasped between Matthieu's two foremost fingers, it almost looked like the barrel of a gun, but the cream stationary glowed pale in the moonlight. Metal shone.

He looked up to see Matthieu grinning, although there was little humor in it. "Do you really think I'm stupid enough to test your skill with a weapon? I remember our practice duels, and you're not an impulsive fool." He tilted his chin to the paper. _Take it._

Slowly, Ludwig lowered the pistol, keeping it hidden at his side as he took the paper and slid it open. The ink wasn't typed; it was handwritten in sloppy cursive, as of one who hadn't quite learned how to perfect the loops in an _H_ or _T_ no matter his earnest efforts.

 _Trust him._

 _He means no harm._

That was it. No signature, no reference as to who _he_ was. There was a date, however: January thirteenth, this year. Less than a day after his last visit. Ludwig frowned, brow furrowing. This didn't make sense. _Unless he's been discovered, in which case_ —

 _Shut up._ Paranoia would not help either of them now.

"And before you ask, both Français and Arthur made sure my cursive was immaculate," Matthieu put in, shrugging. "There's no way that could be my handwriting."

" _Oder Großbritanniens_ ," Ludwig muttered, sighing. If this was a ruse or distraction, he would expect Britain or the President to be behind it, but Matthieu was right; it couldn't be his. If the relationship between the Allies held any secrets, Britain likely didn't know about he and Alfred's arrangement, and Matthieu _himself_ was too neat to be the bearer of such an un-styled hand.

As for the President, he had a keen eye, Ludwig knew that much. He would want to use Ludwig to his advantage.

He had questions; truthfully, Ludwig was bursting with them, but whether or not Alfred was safe was, unfortunately, not important. He'd already spent too long worrying and dawdling. Dawn had already come and gone in Germany, which meant he didn't have much time left before his absence was noted.

Matthieu, thankfully, must have been thinking along the same lines. "Alfred can't be here tonight, but I told him I'd take your place, so what do you have for me?" His brow raised and he listed his head, an action not altogether different from his brother.

Ludwig decided that he was, if not trustworthy, then at least being honest about his intentions. He glanced again at the date on the note. As it happened, his information corresponded within the week of it.

"You are aware of the intelligence I gave Alfred last December?" he asked in a low tone. His voice was deep enough to carry if he wasn't careful.

Matthieu nodded. "Russia, Britain, and the camps."

Ludwig took a breath, rubbing a nerve pang in his forearm. _K_ _öln_ had been bombarded again last night. What _was_ it with the Allies' obsession in obliterating that city? "My government has planned new ways to…execute the Jewish race—and the Slavic, Roma, dissidents. They have made…" He swallowed; it was difficult to talk around the lump in his throat, but he _needed_ to say this—even if it meant sacrificing his sanity to the screeches of train tracks, the grinding hunger and pained moans of millions in his head. The silence after the shrieking. He would never forgive himself if he didn't speak out. "Death camps are in the process of being built. Some of them are active _as we speak._ "

Matthieu's chest swelled and fell with a deep, shuddering breath. "So they've systemized the killings." His tone was soft, accepting. _Why_ did Ludwig hear acceptance in that statement?

"Yes." His mouth twitched, on the verge of an outburst, but he restrained himself. Yelling would only get him caught, and Alfred had taken great pains to make sure he wouldn't be. Ludwig would not let all that careful secrecy be in vain. "Yes, they have. I was not there, but—"

"When?" Matthieu's eyes narrowed, tone steeling, and Ludwig was reminded again of his status in the Commonwealth: the lifeline of Britain's victuals and munitions. The threat it posed as a resource was a large reason why his country had _Unterseeboots_ stationed in the St. Lawrence. "When was this decided?"

Neither Matthieu's distrust nor the instinct to was surprising; Ludwig had seen it the second he stepped out of the shadows, and his urge to vet him now proved that he wasn't here because he truly believed Ludwig wanted to help.

He was here only because Alfred asked him to.

It had happened before. Without any significant role to play in the rebellion, Matthieu had often been relegated to babysitting him while the others went off to train militias or construct battle plans. Matthieu had treated him kindly, he remembered, and offered to help him hone his dueling skills, but his heart hadn't been in entertaining him. To be fair, Ludwig hadn't been pleased about the arrangement either. He'd preferred Alfred's wildness, with his unexpected parries and impromptu journeys into the woods.

Now, Ludwig felt his heart sink, the desire to know where Alfred had disappeared to and why rising in its place. He must be truly gone, if Matthieu didn't have a choice, and it made sense: Alfred wouldn't leave the job to anyone else were he able to attend.

Yet Matthieu's skeptical stare made Ludwig wonder whether it mattered what he said. Alfred's brother might not even believe him, rendering this entire visit—this _risk_ —pointless.

And he knew that his answer, along with the metal—warm under his glove, sticking to the leather—would only fuel his doubts.

"It was decided last January."

Matthieu's eyes went from slits to wide-open in an instant. "And you waited _six months_ to tell us this?" Pain flared in place of his shock as he stepped forward, and one of his hands jerked down to his leg before catching himself; his opponent, however, caught it sooner. "Why?"

"I could not come earlier." Ludwig felt like slapping himself. What a pathetic excuse, but he had nothing else. Nothing that would be the truth, anyway, and he felt like a fool for not having better anticipated what occurred after he left in January. "The file I brought last time was discovered missing. I tried to come two months ago to remind Alfred about the attacks Hitler was planning on the Caucasus, but I was caught. This is the only time I had, Canada."

"Really? Sounds a bit—like you didn't— _care_ —to me—" He cut off with another wince and braced himself against the tree. His fingers dug into the bark, knuckles white. Those of his other hand massaged his right thigh, and he cursed creatively under his breath.

Ludwig shouldn't be upset by Matthieu's injury. His overlord had been bombing his cities for two years— _K_ _öln_ had been hit with a thousand bombers only a month ago, suffering yet more casualties and obliteration of ancient architecture—making the raids in autumn of 1940 appear as child's play. Ludwig's arms and bones ached incessantly from the all the bombs, especially now that the Americans were joining the RAF. He shouldn't feel upset by Matthieu's pain—and by extension, Britain's—but he did.

Because the _Luftwaffe_ were hitting back. Again.

He started forward to help, but Matthieu waved him off. "Stay back."

Quite the threat, that was, but he obliged, stowing the pistol, along with the note, in his belt and taking a step back, looking around to make sure they were still alone.

Matthieu eyed the weapon under his suit jacket with underhanded curiosity. "You land-jumped, didn't you?"

He nodded. It was how he had arrived in the past and remained the only way he could enter the United States safely. It was also the only way he could leave, and he needed to soon, but—regardless of their thoughts on each other—Ludwig was not so cruel as to leave Matthieu while he suffered.

"What has happened to you?" he asked, thoughtfully, once Matthieu straightened enough to drop against the tree trunk with a grimace. His own words brought Alfred's to mind: _What have they done to you?_ Spoken with heartbroken empathy. They hadn't hurt to hear then, but their weight was impossible to bear. He'd been reminded how little he deserved the kindness when he returned home that night.

"Got a little banged up in Africa," said Matthieu vaguely, waving a weary hand. "I'll be fine."

Ludwig didn't believe that, but he didn't have the time to dwell on it. "It is not that I don't care about what is happening. I care too deeply. If I could have come sooner, I would have, please understand that. My sympathies will have me killed if they are discovered. Why do you think I take these risks? Why else would I willingly commit _treason_ —"

"To steal information from us—a double agent," said Matthieu, as sharp as a knife.

" _Nein!"_ Ludwig hissed, jabbing a finger at the heaving chest in front of him."The Allies will win—I will make sure of that. I do not want to fail Alfred's faith in me, but for this to work, I need you to believe that I can be a valuable resource to you."

"Why? What do you stand to gain from this?"

"Freedom. Peace of mind." The abstracts scarcely passed his trembling lips before it registered in his brain like a drug, never enough. Satiety, always out of reach. Ludwig wanted to grasp the reserves of it in the land under his feet and never let go, confident that it would sustain him.

Matthieu snorted. "Even Alfred would tell you that America isn't all its cropped up to be since the seventeen seventies. You remember his civil war, right?"

"But these are what he fights for, yes? Even now?" Ludwig knew the problems here were pervasive and dividing—racial tensions and prejudices were things he was quite familiar with these days—but he was desperate for anything that remotely resembled hope— _more_ desperate, he thought, than he had been as the Weimar Republic, collapsing under his debts. He'd been weak, brought to his knees by a starving public and a useless economy, and the promises of fruits for his efforts, the promises of glory he had tasted off Hitler's speeches—they had tempted him. Of his own volition he gave himself to the regime, and they tossed him headlong into the world of the fanatics and brainwashed, seeking the light at the end of the tunnel only to find it led into deeper darkness.

One thing, and one thing only had woken him up from that nightmare.

"I need Alfred to help me stop this…massacre," he rasped when Matthieu's silence confirmed his inquiry. _Massacre_ didn't feel like the right word, but he had no other. "The Soviet Union is anti-Semitic and equally as autocratic, if not worse. Britain does not have the money or the men to spare—"

Matthieu laughed despairingly. "Golly, I wonder why that is."

"Will you ignore who I am and _listen_ for a minute?" Ludwig bellowed. For once, he didn't care that it was in German, or that someone might hear. This conversation was degrading into copies of the others when he'd tried to tell him the truth, offer his services: Russia called him a _kobold,_ France walked away, Britain slammed the door in his face, the Low Countries, Denmark, Norway—even neutrals Sweden and Switzerland— _none_ of them would hear him out, and he was tired of it.

He was not Hitler, who was not German to begin with. He was not the Nazis, who molded their desperation to abuse and feed on hatred. He refused to represent them.

He was the people cowering in their tattered homes, forced into silence and suppositions of safety—the ones who exited the hyper-inflation period with the same strength of mind, refusing to subject themselves. He was the ones, too, that were desperate for an end, faltering on their feet.

There were native Germans in those camps, and every single one comprised a small part of him. He felt their deaths as keenly as those of his civilians.

No one would believe that, of course, and Ludwig couldn't say their dismissive retorts were completely unfounded. Hitler's dogma bombarded him incessantly, and the temptation to give in was one he resisted every single day.

But one person, finally, after years of searching, had been willing to believe him. That was all he ever wanted: true belief.

One person gave him that, and he was gone.

Matthieu sighed. "That's a lot of weight to put on his shoulders. He isn't a superpower—"

"But he will be, will he not?" Ludwig scanned Matthieu's face, found his answer in the press and twitch of his lips. He didn't want to admit it, but the _German_ was right. "Please, Canada, I am _begging_ you to help these people. They do not deserve this. Their deaths should come to themselves, not by me or these damned _fanatics_."

Shutting his eyes, Matthieu thumped his head against the bark and whispered, "I don't know if we can."

Ludwig froze. It was as if someone had taken a brick and smacked him in the face. What did he mean he _can't_? "Alfred would not say that."

"Alfred isn't here, and the decision to help the Jews isn't up to him anyway. He can tell Roosevelt, but he doesn't hold the reins in the White House or Congress. Only the State Department can do what you're asking, and even then they might need a Congressional grant to make it happen."

The explanation, he thought, was supposed to be reassuring, but it only pushed Ludwig closer to the edge. His hands itched for the pistol. How far did he have left to go before the killings actually started to sound appealing?

 _Not far,_ his conscience whispered, trembling in fear worse than he. "Then have them do it. Thousands can be saved right now if they move quickly enough—"

"True as that may be, the stance of the Allies as of right now is that total military victory will free them. That is what they are choosing to focus on, and we cannot change their decision if they are unwilling to consider it." Matthieu pushed himself shakily to his feet and crossed his arms. The intention may have been to look intimidating, but Ludwig felt only the urge to push him back against the bark. He could do it. His balance was frail enough.

 _Feed me, I'm starving,_ the hatred growled, and Ludwig swore he felt the ground shudder under his boots. It took everything in him to shove it back into its cage. He needed to think clearly.

 _What are you willing to lose in order to gain?_ Ludwig shook away the thought. That did not apply here."So you would prefer to let them _die?_ That defies our purpose."

"It does," Matthieu conceded, but in his pained state it almost sounded grudging. Ludwig prayed he didn't mean it. "It does, but you know better than any of us that what they say goes, and it's too big of a commitment for any of us to handle on our own. Roosevelt's not happy about it, but between the military and the war effort he has too much else to focus on already. I'm sorry, Ludwig, but… I don't think we can stop this from happening, especially if it's already this far along."

There was something final to the statement, as if Matthieu had long ago accepted that the world's descent into chaos was normal and had chosen not to take part. It wasn't a callous observation, and Ludwig sensed that his pain wasn't merely self-serving. He _was_ upset about the policy and genuinely wished for a change.

But, until then, they were both simple pawns in the game, their devotions directed elsewhere.

 _Sacrifices. You have to make sacrifices._ Ludwig's fists shook at his sides; he didn't want to. He _wouldn't._ "Retribution over rescue," he growled. "That is not an excuse. I do not believe you."

In spite of his grim stare, Matthieu shrugged half-heartedly, forcing a calm neither of them felt. "Fine, I'm not asking you to, but I can guarantee Alfred would give you the same response if he were here."

And Ludwig cursed, loudly and carelessly, although he had the heart only to be angry with himself. Matthieu was too incapacitated, Alfred was gone and may not have any idea what was happening, and all he could think was that he should have tried harder, should have come sooner, for every second he wasted here people were dying in those godforsaken camps—innocent people.

Bombs he understood; they were retaliation. Artillery and firearms he could comprehend; they were the mechanisms that won battles and land.

But _this?_ What logical reason was there for ethnic extinction? In any society, past or present?

 _Sacrifices. You have to make sacrifices. What are you willing to lose?_

Not this—them. As individual people, they had no reason to die. Whatever crimes one or a few of them had committed in the past did not justify the slaughter of an entire race.

He raked a hand through his hair, heedless of the knowledge that he would have to fix it later. It gave his fingers something to do so he wouldn't succumb to rage and shoot Matthieu on accident. He wanted to—oh, yes, he did, but whether that was his own mind, his brother's inclination towards violent solutions, or the ideology talking, he couldn't be certain. It bothered and disgusted him all the same.

Ludwig could not change the way Matthieu thought, not the way Hitler so successfully did his people, nor did he want to. All he'd wanted tonight was an _okay._ That was enough to keep him going for months, knowing something was being done on the other side.

And he wasn't going to get it. Another glance in Matthieu's direction told him that.

 _Fine._ He was on his own for this one.

As the pieces for a plan began to fall into place, an old, familiar envy flared in the pit of his stomach. The United States was safe. Hitler wanted to invade, but the likelihood of that happening was negligent, and America would never let herself be touched by dirty hands that didn't already belong there. This land had an eerie way of shutting out the bad in favor of the innocent, the pure and happy—at least until it became the corruptible. It didn't take many visits to know that she didn't like blood the way others did, despite how often it was shed by the people who walked across her.

People could be safe here, if only they would let them in.

Germany, on the other hand, with its centuries and endless days of bloodshed and betrayal…had those swathes of land ever been a safe place? Or had they always been corrupted by blind power and warfare?

"If it's any consolation," Matthieu began, pausing when Ludwig's head whipped in his direction with what was likely a murderous scowl on his face. But then Matthieu jerked his head up and pressed on, "Alfred still has those census counts. He keeps them with him."

Ludwig's blood calmed slightly.

He still wanted to know where Alfred was, but he didn't expect Matthieu had the clearance or the trust enough to tell him, and he knew better than to expect anything else out of him than what he'd already given.

It wasn't a shock. It was family, and Ludwig could envision Gilbert doing the same for him, were it necessary to cover for his disappearances. He wouldn't be pleased—no, he would be furious when Ludwig finally showed up—but he would do it. Thatwas the sort of faith family had in one another, the deeper bond siblings shared—one so few of their kind knew or cherished, having steeped it in wars.

Ludwig couldn't rely on it this time. Off commanding forces in the Soviet Union, Gilbert knew nothing of his subversion, and he could not involve him. Nowhere in Germany was safe enough for this kind of revelation without the risk of being overheard.

He was well and truly on his own.

* * *

 **AUGUST 1942**

Arthur watched Churchill disappear through the doors to Stalin's private rooms in great trepidation. The Prime Minister had asked for a private talk, and he'd been granted it at seven in the evening. Now, an hour and a half later, the British retinue found themselves in the Poteshny Palace for drinks—excluding Arthur, per Stalin's request. The arrangement posed little sense to him, but then, the last time Arthur had been to Russia had been when it was still fresh from its decayed moniker _Muscovy_ on a diplomatic mission for Elizabeth.

He could return to the villa, pack his bags and finish some work, be prepared for when they needed to depart for the aerodrome, but he wasn't going to. He didn't believe Stalin would try anything, but he wasn't taking chances.

Four days had come and gone in the land of the Red Tsar, and the conference had gone poorly—or as well as it could, as Churchill's optimism would no doubt color it. It was true, at least, that Stalin hadn't taken it too harshly when Churchill informed him that there was no possibility of opening a Second Front this year, although he made known that he didn't agree with their reasons, and interactions grew tense between the two at varying points over the following days.

Nonetheless, he'd thrown a banquet for the Prime Minister, displaying all the wealth and grandeur of a tsar while simultaneously exposing the tremendous gap between his lifestyle and the people he commanded. The thrill of a party seemed to clear the cloudy atmosphere with Churchill—until Stalin started mocking his failures backhand, that is—but Arthur hadn't bought it—any of it. He'd barely touched the food (he regretted it later, when his rumbling stomach kept him up through the night) and offered curt, polite responses when asked questions.

Arthur would go mad before he trusted Stalin, and he felt rather proud of himself for taking precautions. It was the best diplomacy he'd conducted in ages—which wasn't saying much, considering he was excluded from the meeting now, but it was still an improvement from before, in the States.

Roosevelt was anxious about the outcome of this meeting. Arthur had promised him that he would have Churchill write when they returned to London, and he intended to keep his word regardless of how inebriated the leaders became tonight.

The two leaders' deep-throated laughter flowed into the hall when the doors next opened again at three in the morning. Arthur, returning from his lonesome wandering through the corridors, heard the sound and hastened to reach them, hopeful that they might be ending the evening early so they could get some sleep before their flight.

But it was not Stalin or Churchill who came out.

"Ah, hello, Britain." Ivan smiled kindly, pushing the door shut with his fingertips.

Arthur slowed as he neared, hands unconsciously clenching in his pockets. If he'd intended to sneak in, and he knew better than to try, there was no chance of it now. "Russia."

Another burst of laughter shoved its way, muffled, into the hall. Ivan's grin took on cheek. "They seem to be enjoying themselves, don't they?"

"I suppose I have you to thank for intoxicating them," said Arthur evenly, loosening his fists enough that the tension wouldn't show as easily while he crossed his arms.

Ivan chuckled. "They drink wine instead of vodka now, if that assuages you at all." His gaze shot over Arthur's right shoulder, and he gave a minute jerk of his chin. The faint pad of retreating footsteps confirmed Arthur's suspicion that his self-guided tour hadn't been so lonely after all.

Ivan had served as one of two translators for the conference, and one of the many reasons the meetings grew tense. Knowing that, it had likely been upon his suggestion that Stalin agree to meet with Churchill in private, and—if the cadence of their laughter could speak—it appeared he may have encouraged the leaders to celebrate their last evening together. His reasons for doing so were beyond Arthur's comprehension, but what _was_ clear was that he had only recently returned from the front—perhaps explicitly for this set of meetings. He housed a gaunt air and a tinge to his skin that, between his long coat and pale coloring, gave him the visage of a grey ghost. It served as excellent camouflage against the palace's veined marbling. Even the bruising around his right eye blended well, if not accentuated their violet hue.

Those irises glittered merrily in the penumbra of the chandelier above their heads as they returned to Arthur; he must have joined Stalin and Churchill in their drinking. "I thought the illustration your Prime Minister drew yesterday was interesting. The crocodile is a good metaphor for Europe."

Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Yes…it was." _What are you playing at?_ Stalin hadn't thought much of Churchill's drawing—nothing that Arthur had been able to discern, anyhow, other than what it represented, but he hadn't heard his response directly, either. Arthur didn't speak Russian. He, like Churchill, had to rely on Ivan's interpretation, giving his opposite an immediate advantage. All he had to do was wear a mask, guise his true intent, and Arthur wouldn't know the difference.

It irritated him immensely. That was _his_ persona, not Ivan's.

"Attack the belly, flick the snout. That is wise in our situation," said Ivan genially, clasping his hands behind his back. He hadn't moved from the door, and Arthur didn't anticipate he would be anytime soon if he was relegated to standing guard.

Well, he _hoped_ Ivan wouldn't be moving soon. Something flashed across his face, gone in a millisecond, but Arthur could swear it was anger.

He swallowed. "It can't be helped. The western border is too well-defended, Russia."

"Blockaded, you mean." Ivan's deep voice echoed in the chamber, smothering the oppressive quiet. No sound, no movement ever graced these halls, it seemed like. The windows were small and spared the plain, ugly furnishings much of the summer sunlight during the day; at night, they were hardly necessary in the chamber already filled with shadows, and the air tasted stale, falling cloyingly still on Arthur's clothes and skin. A simple step could reverberate like a gunshot if he dared to move loudly enough.

Save for the names of power, it seemed that little had changed here in the way of operation since the sixteenth century.

Fighting the urge to wrap his arms protectively around his torso, Arthur jerked his head up, oozing haughtiness. "I stand by what I said."

"And so you are making little effort," Ivan retorted, listing his head in studious assessment. "You are thin, Britain. Are you well? You did not eat much at the banquet yesterday. Nineteen courses gave you many opportunities."

 _Of course you would notice that._ "If we could open a front, we would, but Churchill believes that the bulk of our efforts are better served in Africa, and I happen to agree. An attempt now to open a Second Front would be a massacre."

"War is a massacre. It makes no difference, but you should be more careful what you say in these halls, and how loudly you say them. They may begin to talk back…" Ivan's gaze swung slowly up the ceiling and back with a small, indulgent smile. "Ghosts enjoy staying in familiar places, do they not?"

Arthur lifted an eyebrow, curious in spite of himself. "I didn't know you believed in them." Ivan's tone was light enough that it sounded as if he were trying to repress the darker emotions he felt upon hearing the news. They had been there the first time, Arthur was sure of it, underneath the inflections in his voice and rhythmic blinks of his eyelids as he translated for his Premier. He simply had too much practice shielding them, protecting himself from harm.

It would have been worthy of Arthur's empathy were he not so dangerous when he finally let his emotions loose.

"Perhaps I should not," Ivan clarified, moving towards a vase of sunflowers situated on a pedestal near the doors, "but I am sure they exist, somewhere." He straightened the aesthetic with a gut-wrenching screech of porcelain against marble and hovered, rubbing one of dozens of petals between his fingers. "I find it difficult to believe that you do not, Britain, with your history."

"What do you know of my history?" Arthur drawled, unfolding his arms to rest at his hips. "Last time I was here, you couldn't care less."

"That is true, but a world view is difficult to have when I am always at war with myself." Ivan peered at the pollen he'd drawn onto his skin before looking up. His expression was blank, his eyes even more so. Protecting himself—from what? Did he think Arthur was going to hurt him?

He supposed he already had, in a way, by not agreeing to a Second Front.

 _Yet,_ but that promise sounded hollow to the millions of Ivan's people who were already dead.

Ivan dropped his hand. One foot turned towards Arthur, as if preparing to take a step.

Arthur's hands tensed against his hips, digging until he felt bone.

Ivan saw, and grinned. "Here is what I know about your history: invasion has threatened you, many times, and so you do not have a world view. But your son can."

Arthur frowned. "My so—"

 _Your blood doesn't run through my veins._

It was remarkable how quickly a memory, a _bitter_ memory, changed his temperament. His blood was boiling and he struggled to keep a markedly calm expression by the time he found the right words to respond. "America has his own interests, and they are _quite_ self-serving, I assure you. His part in this discussion—this _conference_ —is irrelevant."

Ivan laughed. _Laughed._ Oh, dear heavens. Arthur's hand slid under his dinner jacket, grasping the hilt of his knife.

"You may act foolish, but you are not a fool, Britain—do not pretend to be one. America is always a part of the discussion. It is true, the best reason you have to start again in Africa is that he is by your side. If I remember correctly, that _is_ what Britain wanted, yes? Is that what you want?" The moment Ivan took a step, Arthur's knife gleamed in the chandelier light, his breath came in frantic gasps, his eyes were wide—

And a single, panicked thought ran through his head: _You will not harm my boy._

It sliced through his chest, lethal and burning like poison. Vacant eyes and mauled flesh of a month-gone dream flashed across his vision. Arthur's wielding arm shook slightly, and he had to fight the urge to give in to tears, searching for comfort. For safety.

Even if he could cry, he wouldn't find solace here within the halls belonging to a man who had already harmed Alfred once. A son was not for him to have anymore. He'd failed once, and the pain of that loss was more than enough.

Several yards away, Ivan's smile simply grew wider.

Arthur gnashed his teeth, speaking through them in an effort to curtail his fury. "If you have something to say, Russia, _say it._ I don't have time for your blasted games."

"Ah, but we all are in a game, you know, and there is never enough time to make the right move." For every firm step Ivan took, Arthur skittered several back, until the inner balcony railing pressed into his hips and Ivan fearlessly allowed Arthur's blade to dig into the skin of his throat. Arthur's hand twitched unconsciously, and a bead of blood bloomed under his jaw.

Ivan didn't wince, but his expression darkened briefly before clearing into another blank stare. "You and your Empire believe you are noble heroes, saviors of the savage. Lie to yourself as much as you like, but the truth is the same: You live for war, for shed blood. It is who we are." Ivan glanced down at Arthur's blue-veined hand trembling the knife and wrapped his around it, prying Arthur's fingers away to grasp the handle himself. "You do not know what a knife to your throat is truly like."

For a brief moment, fear paralyzed Arthur. He feared that Ivan would use the knife against him. Feared that he might toss him over the railing and watch him fall three stories to the hard marble floor. Feared that he might try to kill him.

The worst part was that Arthur believed he would succeed.

In the end, however, it was not Ivan who decided his fate. The doors to Stalin's private rooms opened again, spitting out Churchill and Sir Alec Cadogan, his Under-Secretary in the Foreign Office, who looked disgruntled and more than a little apprehensive. They spotted Arthur and Ivan right as the latter moved out of reach with a grace one would never expect from such a tall, broad figure.

For his part, Arthur tried to remember how to breathe.

"Mr. Russia—a smashing fellow Stalin is! Deeply impressive—and Lord Britain! Didn't think you'd stick round all night or I'd have invited you to join the party!" Churchill bellowed with a laugh. His enthusiasm sounded wrong in these halls, as though he were writing his own death sentence.

Arthur shuddered. He didn't even attempt to hide it. "S – sir." He cleared his throat. "Ready to go, are we?" This question he posed to Sir Cadogan, feeling that Churchill might be too inebriated to answer properly. The Prime Minister had the tolerance of a rhinoceros, but he wasn't surprised to discover that he'd surpassed his limits in the Soviet Union. It turned out that Arthur had discovered his here, too.

Sir Cadogan nodded mutely, darting another glance at Churchill, who had taken to studying the nearest portrait and was running a rather loud commentary. "He complained of a slight headache."

"Right." Arthur fought every instinct in him to run when Ivan faced him again, but the man whom he almost trusted to kill him merely spun the knife to offer him the handle. Hesitantly, Arthur accepted it, careful not to cut Ivan's hand as he did. As much as he would have liked to, he no longer had the nerve.

When it was safely put away, Ivan clasped his hands behind his back and offered an accommodating smile to the two sober men present. "I will see you out. This way." He started off down the hall, his steps unmasked and echoing—louder, even, than Churchill as Sir Cadogan guided him after.

Arthur stayed behind, taking the newly minted silence as a final opportunity for collection and calm—whatever was left—before he had to plunge headlong into the game. Again.

Once again.

* * *

 **NOVEMBER 1942**

There were many things—good things—to celebrate in July. Independence was a good starter, and it had given the airmen on the Santa Ana, California air base another excuse to break out the liquor in respect for victories in the Coral Sea and Midway a month earlier. Finally, after a long, dark period of defeat, the war was starting to look up for the Allies.

Alfred had a personal reason to celebrate, too: he had Matthieu with him.

He arrived a day late, but the quiet morning after the Fourth of July parties found them chatting in the base's small library. Everyone else was asleep or too hung over to think about reading, so they had the room to themselves, replete with slowly filling shelves. Between the lack of material and those the airmen kept in their bunks, there were a lot of empty spaces—too many, Alfred thought—but it was enough to keep the process from being too monotonous. Sometimes, after curfew, one of the men in his barracks would read aloud for the others, often with put-upon accents designed to make them howl well into the night. Alfred would occasionally join in—at times, it was simply too humorous to resist—but he usually let their hushed voices lull him to sleep. It worked better than silence, the time when his thoughts crowded each other for dominance and made his head ache. It was the only time these days when he could worry about the world, and his brain leapt at the chance.

Thankfully, he'd been too drunk last night to care what his brain thought. This morning, nursing a weak ration-cup of coffee, he shook his head at Matthieu's legs, propped on a chair across the table. He'd been ready to punch concrete when he first saw Matthieu limp into the compound. "Remind me to kick Arthur's ass next time I see him."

Matthieu snorted. "Yeah, that'll go well. He'll have you facedown in the mud before you can get a word out."

Alfred pouted. "Not true."

"Uh-huh. True. You may be bigger, but he's still _the_ Empire." Matthieu flashed him a smirk before it disappeared behind his own coffee mug. "It's not his fault, Al. Germans took us by surprise at the end of the Commonwealth meeting. There was nothing he could do."

"He could've sent you back home," Alfred grumbled.

His brother shot him a disbelieving look. "We couldn't let him go into the thick of it _alone_ —and he would've. You know how he is, and if you'd seen how strange he was acting in the meeting beforehand, you wouldn't have let him, either. Even India dove in headlong, and he's been questioning the benefit of his involvement for weeks."

Alfred flinched involuntarily, glancing at Matthieu's bad leg before pushing his gaze down to the mug. "That bad, huh?"

Matthieu nodded. "He's, um…" Tilting his chin to the ceiling, he twisted his lips in a search for the right words. His frequent visits over the past months eased Alfred's instinctive chill whenever Arthur came into the conversation, but the references hadn't been many. Each time, he recalled Arthur's damning statements with fresh clarity, as if he'd said them only hours before. He wasn't angry anymore, but they still hurt—perhaps in part because he still felt as though he deserved them, and hearing that Arthur wasn't performing up-to-task merely worsened his guilt.

Matthieu's silence dragged uncomfortably for a minute before Alfred, growing restless, said, "You don't have to tell me. In fact, I think I'd rather not know… What else have I missed? I feel like I know absolutely _nothing_ here. The only updates I get are from Fireside Chats and rumors. It's frustrating."

Matthieu frowned. "Didn't one of the P's aides come out here in May specifically to get your input on the MI Op?"

Alfred nodded jerkily, glancing towards the door to ascertain they were still unheard—which wasn't saying much. They were on an active military base, and they were being careful—using "the P" for Roosevelt had been Daisy Suckley's idea—but one couldn't be _too_ careful. After all, the rhyme "loose lips sink ships" existed for a reason. In their circumstances, they were fortunate that they didn't need to censor themselves more.

Operation MI referred to the naval and air battle at Midway. Late in May, Alfred had been pulled from a practice flight and brought to a soundproof conference room only to encounter Harry Hopkins himself, straight from Washington and looking as weary and sallow-skinned as Alfred would expect from Roosevelt's close advisor and troubleshooter. When he explained the situation and the intelligence American code breakers had intercepted from Japanese channels, Alfred had wondered why the Naval Chief of Staff wasn't there instead—it would have made more sense, he'd thought—but the reason had quickly become clear: Hopkins wasn't merely there for his input. Roosevelt had sent him personally to update him—primarily, he realized, so that when the time came for him to be deployed, he wouldn't be entirely clueless of the confidential exploits of the past twelve months.

Hopkins hadn't returned since then, but Alfred had read in the _Stars and Stripes_ and heard through the voices of relatives whose letters the airmen received in the PX that the suggestions he'd given were a success—an enormous one, actually, knowing that his men had been outnumbered two-to-one, with no battleships to combat the seven Japanese, and three carriers to their four. Engaging directly would have meant utter defeat, but Hopkins had appeared impressed with what Alfred offered—relieved, even.

To him, however, it had felt simple to come up with an alternate strategy: conduct recon until his men found the Japanese and then launch an attack from a distance using as many Dauntless dive-bombers as the Navy could muster. Never let the enemy see them, never engage directly, and strike far enough away that there was little chance of damage from retaliatory shots.

In other words, hit them before they could carry out _their_ plan.

To Alfred, that was virtually guerilla warfare on water—the same kind of tactics he had used in the Revolution. Against Britain.

It was ironic, then, that in the ensuing fight he lost the _Yorktown_ carrier. From what he understood, it had been badly damaged during the battle at Coral Sea, but by miraculous engineering had been repaired enough to return to service in time for Midway, only to be sunk a week later.

Someone was taunting him—he was sure of it. Someone was trying to make him doubt his success.

Someone…something was trying to remind him.

 _Your blood_ —

"Hey, you in there?"

Alfred blinked, looking up from his cooling mug. "Did you say something?"

Matthieu quirked a bemused grin. "I mentioned Hawk coming to town, and you gave me absolutely no reaction. I thought you'd be bursting out of your seat." He listed his head. "Are you feeling all right?"

Alfred ignored his question. Hawk. _Hawk?_ His brow furrowed.

Then it clicked. Leaning forward, he hissed, "He came? When? What did he say? He hasn't been there since—"

"Since you left, yeah—well…" Matthieu, too, glanced warily towards the door, then dropped his legs with slow, careful movements, one after the other, and leaned close, until Alfred could see the violet flecks in his eyes. "He says the Nazis systemized the killings that month."

"In January?"

"In January." Matthieu's lips pressed in a grim line.

Alfred responded with a bewildered expression. "Why wait so long to tell us this? We could have done something with that time."

"Could you have? That's not what I told him."

Alfred groaned. "Oh, geez, Matt—what did you say to him? Did you tell him where I am?"

Matthieu sputtered a laugh. "Considering that most of the Allies don't know where you are, there's no way in hell I was going to tell him." Upon seeing Alfred's disapproval, he shrugged and fell into the wooden chair back. It whined unhappily. "I told you I'd take whatever intel he had, but I never agreed to trust him."

"That was implied with the request, Dumbo."

Matthieu simply lifted an amused eyebrow.

Alfred stared flatly back, the creased and ink-faded census counts burning in his pocket. He wanted to explain to his brother that Ludwig received enough animosity from the other Allies but knew the effort would be useless. Matthieu had his views, and Alfred had his. 1812 had showed them how they could clash if they didn't respect one another's boundaries. "Fine, don't trust him, but did you at least tell the P?"

"Yes, and Harry's heading across the pond soon, so the PM should know, too."

"Good." It was good. Keeping Churchill and Roosevelt on the same page would strengthen the alliance, the fruits of which would lead to more victories—if they cooperated. If they didn't…

Best not to travel that road.

"Is the P planning on doing anything?" he added.

Matthieu rested his arm against the ledge of the chair back and pushed it through his mussed hair in a distinctly Français-like gesture, smoothing any knots. Alfred suspected it was also a comfort, given the slight crease that had forged in his forehead. "I don't know. You know better than I do how people have tried to get him to do something for the Jews, but nothing ever seems to get done."

"There is that," Alfred muttered. Roosevelt wasn't like other leaders in regards to anti-Semitism—or like the majority of Americans, for that matter. He liked America's Jewish population. He had himself appointed many to positions in his administration, but could America afford to take thousands—maybe millions—of them from Europe?

 _Yes_ , a small voice spat. Alfred didn't flinch or push it away, because it was true. The country was abler and wealthier now than it had been five years ago. It was more than capable of making room to accommodate. It simply didn't _want_ to.

How many times could he sing that song in his history? Would it ever fall silent?

"There's something else, too."

Alfred dropped the hand that was rubbing across his face. Exhaustion from the night's celebrations and two hours' worth of sleep was starting to creep in, and he hoped he could stay awake long enough to make it to six AM roll call.

Matthieu's flippant nonchalance turning sheepish, however, proved to be the caffeine boost he needed. "Something else Hawk said, or…?"

"No, it's…" Matt sighed and raked his fingers through his hair, scrubbing the back of his neck. He only did that when he knew Alfred wouldn't like what he was going to say. "It's going to be a while before I can make it back again. They want me to lead the Jubilee Op."

Alfred blinked. "I'm not in Washington, remember? I don't know what any new codenames mean."

"No, suppose you wouldn't. This one's British, too," Matthieu mumbled. He rose and limped to the library's entrance, scanning the hall before pulling the door firmly shut and turning the bolt.

Alfred sat straighter in his seat. That could not be a good sign.

Matthieu hovered by the door, speaking over his shoulder. "In April, Combined Operations came up with a plan to stage a raid on the French coast. Weather wasn't permitting, so it was canceled." Limping back over to the table, Matthieu leaned against it and fixed Alfred with a dead stare. "It was revived a couple weeks ago, and they want me to lead it."

Alfred gaped. "You're _injured._ Why would they—a _raid?_ That's exactly what Chur—what the PM is advocating _against._ "

"I know. It's not meant to be full scale—just to test the strength of German defenses and secure some intelligence."

"But—"

"Al, listen. My troops haven't seen much of the war so far. Frankly, they weren't prepared, but they are now, and everyone from my government to the men themselves are itching to get into combat. CIGS approved the Second Division to go in. Having me there would be a morale boost for them—and you're all about morale, right?"

"Morale's not the point," said Alfred stubbornly, standing. "You're still injured, Matt. How can they expect you to fight when you can barely walk?"

"Because I told them that it would be healed by that point, and I meant it. _Trust_ me, Al. I'm a big boy now; I'll be fine." He grinned, but Alfred knew he was lying. He still favored his left leg and brief twitches of pain flickered across his face—a face that Alfred had once seen marred with scabs and deep gashes, the result of a shell malfunction. It blew up right in front of him; the shrapnel tore his facial nerves to shreds, and the flash blinded him for days. Twenty-five years ago that had happened, and he'd been wearing glasses ever since. Some of those scars lingered, if Alfred looked hard enough, pocking like acne along his jaw and cheeks. They were harder to see in the electric lights, but when the sun hit him right…

There were days that Alfred hated himself for not being there during his convalescence, that he hadn't seen the bandages and blindness for himself, that he hadn't offered him any comfort, being too absorbed in himself to care that—had they been mortal—his brother would have _died_. He was determined not to let it happen again, but he felt useless to do anything. He didn't have his position or influence in the White House anymore, and while that would reverse itself eventually, it wouldn't change fast enough to keep Matthieu safe.

Jaw working, Alfred had to restrain his strength in order not to slam the coffee mug onto the table. He'd probably shatter it if he did, and the base was low on mugs as it was. "When is it?"

"Mid-August."

Alfred eyed his brother's leg once more, then sighed. "Okay. Write me when it's said and done, let me know you're all right."

"Of course." Matthieu's grin turned lopsided, already laughing as he remarked, "You know, your concern is kind of touching—and unexpected. I mean, twenty years ago I wouldn't have _dreamed_ that you'd defend my honor and safety—"

"Shut up." Alfred tried to sound deliberate, but he was laughing, too.

Now it was early November, and he still didn't know what fully transpired during that raid in August. He knew from the military papers that it was a disaster. Most of the Canadian Second Division had been captured or killed, but all Alfred really understood was that his brother never wrote him.

When Harry Hopkins came again late that month to update him and ask for input on landings in French Morocco and Algeria, he said he didn't know anything about Matthieu, but he would cable Churchill and ask.

Since then, things had been looking up in North Africa. Every day—every minute—the Nazis were being forced into retreat. The landings Hopkins had asked him about were rumored to be a success, although no paper had yet confirmed it.

And still no one knew what happened to his brother.

In the course of many nights that he had lain awake in his bunk, Alfred had considered the possibility that Matthieu _had_ written him, and it had been sent to the Santa Ana base after he'd been transferred upstate. But then doubt reminded him that the letter would have found him by now. He could have telegrammed, could have phoned—he could have _land-jumped_ , for God's sake—but there was nothing. The fact that he hadn't done the latter worried him most.

There were only three reasons Alfred could conceive as to why he hadn't shown up:

He was too busy, there was no time.

He'd been captured, was kept under too close supervision and, in leaving suddenly, his absence would provoke retaliation on other POWs, or…

He was captured, injured, or both, and his captors had discovered who he was.

If it was the latter, and he was too injured to save himself, there were few limitations to the things his captors could do to extract information. Alfred hated to consider the possibility. Such a life was worse than being dead, and he was desperate enough for information that he'd often tried to write Arthur, the one person who might actually be keeping track of him.

Every time he started a letter, however, he lost the courage. And when he did write, it turned into a piddling mess of uncertainties and accusations—nothing he could send. There was no guarantee that Arthur would answer him anyway, if he even deigned to read it.

Maybe Alfred could risk writing Ludwig. Ask him if he'd heard anything.

Standing at his bunk, slipping off his heavy sheepskin jacket after that day's round of solo flights, Alfred froze.

Why hadn't he thought of doing that sooner?

Sense crept in then, and he resumed his course of action of shoving his arm out of the thick sleeve, silently cursing himself for being so naïve. He couldn't write to Ludwig. That was more likely to get his agent caught than yield any real answers. He was simply going to have to suck in his pride and write Arthur—keep it short and sweet, succinct, and hope he would read it.

Arthur was the only available option.

Alfred had barely finished changing—the familiar weight of his A-2 had only just settled on his shoulders—when someone grabbed the back of it and yanked.

He landed flat against the ladder of the opposite row of bunk beds with an involuntary _oof_ and had less than a second to register the snarling face in front of him before the fist connected with his jaw. His head swung, and he started to fall forward.

Again, he realized too late how bad of an idea that was.

The knee connected with his nose, there was a crunch, and Alfred felt the blood flow. Laughter rang through the narrow barracks as he dropped to his knees, trying to catch his breath.

"Serves you right, _punk_ ," sneered a voice. Through the ringing in his ears, Alfred recognized it as belonging to Staff Sergeant Smith, an officer prone to aggression both in and out of a plane. Like Alfred, he was training as a fighter pilot, but for whatever reason, Smith loathed him almost from the moment they met.

Ginger curls peeked from under his flight cap when Alfred looked up, his freckled face crinkled in a vehement twist of a smile. Two other shadows graced the bunk behind him.

He'd brought back up. This wasn't just a petty excuse to bully him; Smith wanted to feel like he could beat Alfred in a fight and have the witnesses to tell the story.

This was a confrontation. Great.

Wiping the back of his hand under his nose, Alfred felt tenderly along the bone. It didn't feel entirely broken, but it was definitely fractured. And his jaw throbbed. Even better.

Pushing himself to his feet, Alfred refused to use the bunk for support as he gathered his bearings. Call it pride, but he wasn't about to give this idiot the satisfaction of a victory. He simply didn't have time for these kind of games.

"What the hell is your problem, Smith?" he asked, cringing a little at the slight wheeze in his voice. At least he hadn't dislocated his jaw. "Got a thing against guys who're prettier than you are?"

Smith snickered. "Not from four-eyes like you."

Four-eyes? Oh. _You've gotta be shitting me._

Well, that explained why Smith didn't like him much.

He goaded, "My brother was washed into the Army because he wears glasses, so what makes you so special? The President said _no special advantages_ for any group, or did you miss that Chat?"

Alfred's gaze narrowed to match Smith's. The implication was clear: not listening to Roosevelt's Fireside Chats suggested that Alfred wasn't purely devoted to the cause—that he didn't care about the Armed Forces more than the glory that came with service, proving he wasn't so solicitous towards freedom and the prevail of democracy. All it would take was one word to the authorities and he could be removed from service if they found reasonable doubt.

Or, in Alfred's case, they could pry a little too deep into his records and find out he _is_ the abstract.

Behind Smith, the two lieutenants glanced uneasily at one another. Alfred smirked in spite of himself. The victory was petty, but it reminded him that they had no idea how much a difference was actually between them.

In every stage of training, the cadets and lieutenants were courteous towards him, but he was inevitably asked the same question at some point—a version of it, anyway: _How'd you get in with glasses?_

His answer—a white lie—didn't always deteriorate into a fight, but it had happened before.

None of this was a surprise.

But, for the first time, Alfred found his fists clenching, found that he wanted an excuse to unleash some pent-up aggression.

No. _You are better than this._ Smith, repugnant as he was, was one of his citizens, and protecting his people didn't involve punching them for trivial attacks on his honor—most of the time. That had happened before, too.

Slowly, with many deep breaths, Alfred coerced his fingers to loosen. "That's none of your business. It's too late now, isn't it, and there's no point, so let it go. It's not worth a fight." Alfred felt as though he were trying to convince himself more than Smith, but there was nothing else to say, so he scooted past him and headed for the connecting hall that led out of the barracks, wiping the blood off his mouth as he went. He need to reset his nose. He needed a drink—edge off the dull ache that was spreading over his face—and maybe a girl, too—one of the WACs on the base who repaired navigational instruments. Something to take his mind off his brother and the time he always seemed to be running against.

Silly boy. He should've known better.

Rather than grabbing him, Smith shoved him this time. Alfred stumbled but didn't trip and spun to find Smith had his fists up and was bouncing on his toes. The action was rather clumsy and uncoordinated, and Alfred realized two things:

First, that he was drunk. Now that he was paying attention, Alfred could smell the beer on his heavy, adrenaline-laced breaths.

Second, that his friends weren't, and they clearly wanted no part of this brawl, backing deeper into the barracks with weak notes of protest. Smith and Alfred were about the same size and build; Smith was a bit lankier, but not much, and yet they saw something in Alfred that they didn't want to provoke.

Or perhaps they merely didn't want to sully their reputations by ganging up three-to-one on a pilot wearing glasses.

Whatever the reason, Alfred was grateful. He'd rather not have to knock out three people tonight.

Hopefully—perhaps selfishly—his jacket wouldn't get torn, either. He was rather fond of the A-2, and he'd just had the insignia of his fighter group sewn on.

A small voice inside told him this was wrong. He should walk away. This was not a battle he needed to fight.

He ignored it.

Removing his glasses and tucking them in the front pocket, Alfred gestured. _Come on._

Smith lunged, swinging, and Alfred ducked, ramming his forearm into Smith's stomach and shoving him back several feet. He doubled, coughing, and for a moment Alfred feared that he hadn't withheld his strength enough and cracked ribs, but then Smith was diving for him again, his face the same shade of red as his hair and snarling like an animal. He wrapped his arms around Alfred's waist and shoved, trying to bring them both to the ground.

Twisting out of Smith's grip, Alfred used the momentum to seize the bars of the nearest bunk bed and throw himself off. This was a narrow hall with a low ceiling; he prayed he wasn't about to break anything—himself or otherwise.

Alfred saw Smith's eyes widen a split-second before his foot connected with his head and sent him careening, spinning a one-eighty and falling flat on his face. Alfred landed steadily, knees bent, and waited with bated breath. He and everyone else on the base would not be happy if he ended up killing a pilot the Air Forces desperately needed.

Finally, after a long, ringing moment, Smith moved.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Alfred morphed the compassion into a cocky smile and averred, "Want to go another round? I'm starting to take offense to nickname Four Eyes." Had to keep up appearances, after all.

As Smith struggled back to his feet, the other two lieutenants gaped.

"Holy shit," said the first. "That took _two_ punches. _Two._ "

"Did you even break a sweat?"

"Want to find out?" Alfred riposted, offering them a charming smile over his shoulder. "I could do this all day."

The second lieutenant paled. "No, sir."

"Didn't think so." Alfred relaxed his defensive stance. Smith had given up on trying to stand. That worried him more than a lieutenant—equal in status, by all accounts—deferring to him as his superior. "Get out of here, and take Smith with you." Said man grunted, and Alfred turned to find that he'd propped himself against the wall and his eyes were glassy, unfocused. No, it definitely hadn't been a good idea to use that much force. "Have him checked out in the base infirmary. He might have a concussion."

Without a word, the lieutenants saluted and retrieved Smith, wrapping his arms around their shoulders as they dragged him down the hall.

Alfred heard the door shut and deflated against the wall, raking a hand through his hair. _That took_ two _punches._ Two. Those lieutenants would be talking as soon as Smith was taken care of, telling everyone about how he'd knocked him senseless. Others would probably embellish it until all it took was one punch.

"Way to go, Jones—expose your secret," he muttered, feeling along his nose for the fracture. Finding it, he gritted his teeth and reset the bone in one swift jerk. It stung enough that he felt like punching something.

So much for letting out frustration. Who did he think he was, Ivan?

Alfred shuddered at the thought. _He_ was a man he never wanted to fight again. One broken nose, three snapped ribs, five fractures, and a paralyzed solar plexus was painful enough to stick for a _long_ time.

Sighing, he thumped his head against the brick behind him.

"With those moves, you should've joined the OSS. That the secret you're talking about?"

Alfred jumped, flying into a defensive position before he fully registered who had spoken. When he did, he blinked, dropped his clenched hands, and hastily replaced his glasses to be sure that he was seeing correctly. "Hap?"

The USAAF commander's eerie resting grin became slightly more genuine as he approached—straight-backed, every movement purposeful and precise. His steps were loud claps on the concrete. Alfred should have noticed that he had company earlier. As it was, he was moving incredibly slow in passing through the shock of seeing the Army Air Forces Chief in a barracks. In California—the wrong side of the country.

That could only mean one thing.

"If you're a secret agent, that would explain quite a bit about you, though you wouldn't've needed my help just to get your sorry ass enlisted, would you?" Hap paused in front of him, looking expectant.

That was when the question clicked, and Alfred forced a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "If I was, do you expect me to answer honestly?"

"My thoughts exactly," said Hap gruffly. His steely gaze moved quickly and appraisingly over Alfred's makeshift uniform of scuffed shoes, civilian trousers, and A-2 leather jacket, eyeing the pilot's wings on his collar and the small patch on his breast in particular—the little green star on a cream background. He scowled. "Where's your dress wear?"

Alfred didn't bother looking down as he shrugged. He knew he'd been too preoccupied to care what he wore out tonight. "Dirty. Need to be washed."

Hap lifted a dark eyebrow—a sharp contrast to the white underneath his garrison cap—but evidently decided time was of the essence, because he didn't pursue the subject. "Change into your flight suit and pack your bags. You're leaving, tonight. There's a crew waiting to take you off, so be quick about it."

Alfred frowned. "Where am I going?"

"Got a letter from the President that'll explain all that," said Hap evasively, already heading down the hall. "Now change."

Hopeful that he was about to receive some good news, and genuinely curious about what Roosevelt wanted him to do, Alfred returned to his bunk and pulled out the B-3 and long underwear he'd only recently removed, simultaneously sliding off the A-2 in an effort to "be quick about it".

He was reluctant to pack the A-2, because regulation required that he wouldn't be able to take it out again until he was on American soil, and he had a feeling that Hap hadn't come out here—that Roosevelt hadn't sent him here—simply to transfer him somewhere else in the country.

Granted, he would probably ignore that rule—most did—but after purchasing it several months ago, Alfred had parted with his A-2 only when he slept or went up in high altitudes. The russet-toned leather had become a second skin, a comfort blanket, wearing to the trim of his body and creasing in all the right places. He didn't want to risk losing those to the shape of his duffel, but…some comforts had to be sacrificed.

Still, it was with the hope of wearing it again that he allowed himself a moment to smooth his fingers over those unique, discolored lines before stowing it.

Hap was pacing restlessly when Alfred emerged into the chilly autumn evening, and he made a beeline over upon spotting him. Alfred braced himself. _Don't tell me it's an emergency._ It couldn't be. Hap would have opened with that information. They'd been alone in the barracks, after all; everyone else was out partying, avoiding the cold. What better privacy was there?

But then Al thought of his brother and felt himself un-root from the ground, ready to run across seas and minefields until he found him.

Where the hell was he? Why hadn't he written?

"I forgot," Hap began, digging in the breast pocket of his olive-drab service coat, and Alfred had the sudden urge to slap him. It wouldn't do much in the way of helping him—it would probably demote him—but it might make him feel better.

How could he _forget_?

Yet, what Hap forgot was not anything that he expected. "Your completion of training comes with a promotion of grade, Jones. On behalf of myself and the board of officers who've watched you over the course of your training, it seems you've got an unprecedented knack for leadership—and you haven't even been on the field yet," he added with a laugh, producing a small, square box. Hap opened it to reveal a simple pin of two sterling silver bars—something he might attach to a uniform. _Alfred's_ uniform.

"Normally, we would hold a ceremony, but there's no time for that. Open your jacket," Hap ordered, and Alfred complied with numb fingers, stunned speechless for the second time that night. This shouldn't be happening. Hap was right—he hadn't been on the field yet. Why was he being promoted, and why by _two_ grades?

Roosevelt had something to do with this. He knew it must be the truth as Hap fixed the bars under Alfred's left lapel, right above his heart, and fell into a salute as he stepped back.

"Welcome to the Air Forces, Captain."

* * *

Footnotes:

Germany  
 **1\. the Holocaust:** Death camps—labor camps built with gas chambers—were in construction in 1941, but it was not until the Wannsee Conference on 20 January 1942 that the genocide of the Jewish race was systemized. Belzec (in Poland) was the first death camp to go into service in March that year. Prior to this decision, massacres were carried out by mobile killing groups within the SS, _Einsatzgruppen_ , who followed the Army into the conquered areas (primarily the Soviet Union). I'm uncertain whether the Allies knew about this decision, but they knew Poland was the principal target. I chose to have Ludwig reveal this decision to them because, later in July, both Roosevelt and Churchill went on public record with their views about the Nazis' actions towards Jews.

 **2\. Allies' View:** I wrote of this briefly in the footnotes of chapter four, but in touching on the Allies' stance towards the Holocaust again, I feel it's important to clarify how Roosevelt and Churchill felt about it. While Roosevelt was considered an advocate of the Jews (one of his closest advisors was Jewish) and Churchill harbored no ill will towards them, the common belief is that both leaders could have done more. There is no question about that—especially when, in 1944, a US War Refugee Board was established and rescued thousands in the next year and a half—and it would have helped if the issue hadn't been relegated so much to the bureaucratic State Department (US) and Foreign Office (UK). Even so, immigration quotas and anti-Semitism were the reality in both countries, and there wasn't much to be done about that if the people didn't support a change.

 **3\. "Massacre didn't feel like the right word":** the term "genocide" was not coined until after the Second World War, and it didn't seem authentic to the period to use it.

 **4\. Strategic Area Bombing** on cities of cultural or industrial importance occurred primarily from 1942–45. The bombings killed thousands by the end of the war and left many German cities in ruins. Cologne ( _K_ _öln_ ) alone suffered over 200 raids; the one mentioned in this chapter refers to the first thousand-bomber raid cobbled together by Arthur Harris's RAF Bomber Command for the night 30/31 May 1942. In concordance with Allied raids, Germany retaliated for earlier incidents by launching "Baedeker" raids, whose sites were chosen based on whether the cities received three stars as cultural centers in the Baedeker tourist guide.

 **5\. American Revolution:** As established in chapter four, I believe that Ludwig would have been present during the American Revolution. The story (i.e. headcanon) goes that Gilbert, who arrived in the States around the same time as Baron von Steuben in December 1777, would not let Ludwig come with him, leaving him with one of the other German kingdoms. Ludwig, however, had other ideas, and upon hearing rumors of France's intention to formally ally with the American colonies slipped away and snuck aboard a French ship—the same ship France himself was on to deliver the treaties to the Continental Congress, probably sometime in April of 1778.

 **6\. Land-jumping** is another headcanon of mine, and it's been referenced in previous chapters. If any reader was confused as to how a personification reached any place so quickly (such as Matthieu in this chapter, or Ludwig at any time thus far), your question has been answered! Basically, it's Apparition— _Hetalia_ -style, and without a wand. Magical though it may be, I think such an ability would a) give credence to the fact that they aren't entirely human, and b) allow a personification to be where he needs to in a moment's notice, especially in cases of emergency or in situations where they absolutely cannot be detected (such as capture). It has a lot to do with being able to serve their people, which is perhaps why it isn't used more often. I haven't fully developed this theory, but it could stem from their connection to the land. Speaking of which…

7\. Physical landscapes have thus far been given the pronoun "she" and are characterized as having a thirst for blood. The pronoun is not intended to be misogynistic; it's purpose is to acknowledge how mortals refer to countries in context (since most of _Hetalia_ is male). As for the bloodthirstiness: if one thinks about it, the blood shed in wars soaks into the ground and disappears from naked sight—that's been a poetic symbol for quite some time. But because so much of humanity has a tendency towards aggression, would it not follow that the ground personified learns to cope over the centuries and millennia by finding nourishment in bloodshed? It's unfortunately a fact of nature that wars have been frequent and costly in the span of history that we know, and to this day some nations' borders remain defined by them. Eventually, the land would have to make a choice.

 **8\. "Russia called him a** _ **kobold":**_ a mischievous spirit or goblin of German folklore said to reside in mines, _kobold_ s make a living switching silver with another, useless element combined with arsenic—what is today known as cobalt, named after these little mythical critters. Obviously, it's not Russian, but I thought Ivan might use some strange, obscure reference for Ludwig to puzzle over.

9\. I apologize if the bit with the White House and American abstracts sounds like a joke and their significance exaggerated; there is a reason for it, I assure you. I would also point out that, at this time, the American people trusted their government implicitly—especially the President, and in particular Franklin Roosevelt. They trusted him to tell them the truth and, in turn, he trusted them to do what was necessary for the country and its ideals.

Russia  
 **1\. Location:** Stalin lived in the Poteshny Palace (inside the Moscow Kremlin) until his second wife, Nadya, committed suicide in November 1932. He moved into the Senate Building afterwards, but on the final night of Churchill's visit they did have dinner and drink in Nadya's former bedrooms in the Palace.

 **2\. Arthur's last visit** refers to England's creation of Muscovy Company with regards to opening trade with Ivan the Terrible's Russia in the 1550s (Muscovy, AKA Grand Duchy of Moscow, was dissolved in 1547) after Antwerp was compromised by Protestantism. It was primarily an effort to find a Northwest Passage to Cathay (China) through waters that the Spanish and Portuguese didn't already control and engage in direct trade.

 **3\. Crocodile:** Strange as it may sound, Churchill really did draw a picture of a crocodile for Stalin to demonstrate the Allied attack in Africa (soft belly). The snout most likely refers to the Strategic Area bombings. When researching symbolism on the crocodile, however, I found some interesting cultural interpretations that fit well with Ivan and Arthur—namely, their relationships with themselves and others. As the author of the site "What's Your Sign", Avia Venefica writes that crocodiles are known for being fiercely protective of their young, but their association with water also suggests a need for fluidity of emotion and healing. They are also implied with timing, patience and preparation because their movements are so precise and they choose to wait until the opportune moment to strike.

 **4\. Russia and his Sunflowers:** although indigenous to North America, the plant became very popular to cultivate in Europe during the mid- to late-1700s because of the versatile uses of their oils in production and as a means of consumption. It was Russia, however, who first commercialized the plant. Initially, the Russian Orthodox Church popularized it as one of the few oily foods not prohibited during Lent, and by the early 1800s, the sunflower was in mass production.

 **5\. Ivan** takes the place of two people in this section: Major Birse, the primary translator on the final night of the Moscow Conference, and Vyascheslav Molotov, who saw Churchill and Cadogan out. On another note, Russia gets a bad rep for being a psychotic sociopath. If it came across that way here, that was not the intention. In my view, he's simply a man with a tragic history—as with most nations—who copes with it in his own way.

6\. Two days after this conversation, on 19 August, the fatal Dieppe Raid (discussed next section) takes place, thus confirming Churchill's claim that a Second Front is not possible in 1942.  
Six days after this conversation, the Siege of Stalingrad will begin as well.

7\. At some point in August, Churchill also went to Cairo to oversee the North African campaign. Considering _Franklin and Winston_ records him returning to London after this trip to Russia, it was probably before this scene.

America

 **1\. Terminology  
** A-2 = summer leather jacket worn by the USAAF (see below)  
B-3 = winter or high-altitude jacket worn by the USAAF (see below)  
CIGS = Chief of the Imperial General Staff  
OSS = Office of Strategic Services, US espionage organization (precursor to the CIA)  
PX = Post Exchange  
 _Stars and Stripes_ = a military newspaper written for and by soldiers  
WAC = Women's Army Corps, an organization established May 1942 allowing women to perform in auxiliary/mechanic jobs for the Army and Air Forces. WASPs (Women Air Force Service Pilots) were just beginning at the time this takes place.

 **2\. Books:** People nowadays—including myself—underestimate the role of books in the war. It turns out, whether on home soil or fighting on an island, they were the absolute best (and cheapest) recreational escape the military could offer; the servicemen loved them. By the time Alfred and Matthieu are seated in the base's library, a national book drive, the Victory Book Campaign (VBC), had been set up across the country and over ten million books had been collected. The problem was that many of the books donated were not ones that young men held interest in reading (cookbooks, sewing manuals, etc., hence the "lack of material") and most of them were hardcover—which was fine for a base library but impossible to carry in an infantryman's pack already filled with pounds of ammunition. There was a solution, ultimately—that'll come in 1943.

 **3\. Roosevelt's People:** Margaret "Daisy" Suckley was FDR's cousin and close confidant. She often referred to him as "the P." when writing. Whether she used it in other situations, I don't know, but it seemed fitting.

Harry Hopkins was a close advisor and key diplomat in the Anglo-American alliance, as well as playing a huge role in FDR's New Deal. He often represented Roosevelt when in London with Churchill and held the faith and confidences of both leaders. (As for why Hopkins came out in late August when the Torch landings didn't occur until November, the plans were approved in September, so they would have needed Al's input before then.)

 **4\. "A raid on the French Coast":** Until July 1942, Canadian men hadn't seen much of the war fronts, remaining primarily in Britain. Pressure from the Canadian government, however, had the Second Division assigned to this raid when it was still called "Rutter" in April 1942. Likewise, pressure from the RAF was the big motivator for this: after the Battle of Britain, daytime fighters were sent to France on search-and-destroy missions, and they were losing heavily. The _Luftwaffe_ would not engage on the coastlines, forcing British and Canadian planes at a disadvantage by following them inland. The RAF wanted a great air battle, and so that was the large reason—despite poor intelligence and underestimates of Nazi defenses—the Dieppe Raid went forward.

 **5\. Canada's Glasses:** If America's glasses represent Texas, where did Matthieu's come from? That's the question I asked myself, and a lovely book called _A Little History of Canada_ ( _ALHC_ ) gave me an answer: the First World War saw droves of Canadians flood into service, garnering a reputation for excellence and ferocity—notably in Flanders, Ypres, the Somme, and Vimy Ridge—but the goings-on in the Home Front weren't so noble. Perhaps in part because munitions workers toiled under intense overtime to forge desperately needed shells and weapons, troops were sometimes supplied with defective weapons. A shell malfunction may not have been uncommon, and thus we have the reason for Matthieu's glasses. What they might represent, I'm not certain (Newfoundland, maybe, which only became a province in 1949?), but there's a backstory!

6\. The use of the name "Smith" for the Staff Sergeant doesn't reference anyone in particular. It is used simply in the sense of a general American.

 **7.** **America's Uniform:** The A-2 leather jacket Alfred is so fond of is the basic equivalent of his character's in _Hetalia_ , lacking the mouton fur collar (which A-2s didn't have, but B-3 winter/high-altitude jackets did). It was universally worn by pilots and bomber crews and could be embellished with patches or hand-painted drawings (like the little star patch he has). The uniform Alfred wears in the anime is most likely a slimmer version of the summer uniform USAAF officers wore, a light tan color or "khaki shade no. 1". (There were a lot of codes and numbers for clothes in the armed forces.)

On a side note: the "dress wear" Hap asks about would consist of a light-shade olive drab (no. 54) jacket and trousers. That changes to a different "no. 1" uniform once he becomes a Captain, consisting of a _dark_ -shade olive drab (no. 51) jacket and trousers; the latter could also be light tan khakis. Men's uniforms were not blue as they are today, although Hap secretly planned to replace them with it and eventually did.

 _As a disclaimer, I'm simplifying the USAAF processes largely because I don't quite understand it all myself, and the research I do oftentimes confuses me more. Nonetheless, I hope what I have included and will include comes across clearly._

I hope you enjoyed this slice of Alfred's tactical and physical strength, and caught the Captain America references (there's two). I felt pretty cheeky writing them.

 _Chapter Sources:  
_ 1\. AAHII  
 _2\. ALHC  
_ _3\. The American Revolution: What Really Happened_ , by Alan Axelrod  
4\. "Dieppe Raid" – Wikipedia  
 _5\. Franklin and Winston  
_ 6\. "History" – National Sunflower Association  
7\. "kobold" – Dictionary. com  
 _8\. The Pirate Queen,_ by Susan Ronald  
 _9\. Stalin: The History of a Dictator_ , by H. Montgomery Hyde  
10\. "Symbolic Alligator Meaning and Crocodile Meaning" – Avia Venefica, What's Your Sign  
 _11\. USAAF Handbook: 1939 – 1945,_ by Martin W. Bowman  
 _12\. When Books Went to War_ , by Molly Guptill Manning  
13\. "Winston…was complaining of a slight headache" – Tommy Norton, British National Archives  
 _14\. WWII_

 _Quote Source: Franklin and Winston_

I would like to apologize for a mistake concerning France—specifically, his human name. Hetalia Archives, if I'd thought to look it up when he first entered the story, lists the French translation of "Francis" as "François", meaning "Frenchman". I understood the difference in meaning when I first used "Française" ("French manner"), but herein lies the problem: it's the feminine form of the word. It should be "Français", and the only reason I have for using the former form is ignorance. To be clear: my using the term for "French manner" _is_ intentional, but I neglected to take the word's gender into account. So, from here on, his name shall be printed as "Français".


	10. Understanding Times Pt I

**Understanding Times (Part I)**

 _"I feel that a growing understanding between us will perhaps mean more in the future, not only to us but to the world, than we can now know."_

– Eleanor Roosevelt, 1 November 1942

 **8 NOVEMBER 1942**

 _November 7, 1942_

 _8:00 PM_

 _Mr. A,_

 _Allow yourself a drink in our honor tonight, for I should say there is reason to celebrate: the eggs have been laid. One has hatched, one is confined restlessly inside her shell, and one flies swimmingly. The chick trapped inside her shell fights but has not yet touched ground, and the one who has hatched flaps and squawks against resistance, but those of us who laid them harbor little doubt that they will succeed in torching the coals outside the nest. It's rather hot on the other side anyway, but it couldn't surely be worse than California in August._

 _Do I sound like Winston, yet? It would be a shame if I didn't; I spent good time creating that metaphor._

 _Speaking of which, Eleanor has spent the past two weeks touring the the British Isles, boosting morale, visiting the garrisons, meeting with the royals and hitting it off beautifully with his better half, both of whom have endless praises for her and the gifts I sent with her. I asked them to let me know occasionally how things were going, and Eleanor seems, reportedly, to be enjoying herself; she wrote me last month about the unquenchable spirit of the British people in spite of the hardships they face daily, the brave work of innumerable women on their Home Front, and of the general desire of our servicemen to see battle._

 _I imagine the men on your side of the country are equally as eager. Give them some advice from me, will you? Make it encouraging, of course. We cannot afford to discourage them from service, but you and I both know how the toll of a battle strikes a man's heart and mind—perhaps something of the nature of Mr. Kipling:_

 _"If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,  
_ _Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch,  
_ _If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,  
_ _If all men count with you, but none too much…  
_ _Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,  
_ _And – which is more – you'll be a Man, my son!"_

 _I know you aren't one for poetry, Mr. A, but see if that inspires anything the boys will take heart in._

 _I have little knowledge surrounding your equivalent across the Atlantic; however, my conversation with Winston on the first of November suggested to me that he is present in my better half's proceedings. He indicated a certain uneasiness about him—an eagerness to return to the fight and "prove his mettle once again", as Winston phrases it, perhaps as soon as Eleanor's visit concludes. I don't expect you to write me a response, but I wonder if this behavior appears at all strange to you. Lord B. certainly seems the fighter, but I never imagined him so compelled to war. I sent a letter with Eleanor updating him on your current, and soon to change, circumstances, lest Mr. Williams be unavailable or, more likely, uninformed._

 _Harry spoke to me early in September and indicated that you are not aware of his condition. I find it difficult to believe that none of our friends and allies in England thought to send you a telegram, but I suppose none of that matters at this moment._

 _Winston sent me a gram near the end of August informing me that your brother is in safe hands with Lord B. I learned later that he was severely wounded in the raid on Dieppe, but he is healing. Winston would not provide specifics as to his injuries. Truthfully, he sounded rather astonished that he survived, but in all else I believe Mr. Williams to be convalescing smoothly. I will keep you informed as need requires._

 _I assume you have heard something by now of the battle for the Solomon Islands, whether from Harry or the press. As of the date I write, it continues unpredictably and at a slug's pace. The Japanese have an unfortunate advantage in torpedo technology and in their development of night-fighting technique. Our forces—American, British, Dutch, and Australian primarily—clash with them continually on the island of Guadalcanal, the territory of Papua, and on the seas with short-lived victories. Reports of fighting inland—and in particular to retain Henderson Airfield, on the foremost mentioned—detail gruesome atrocities committed by the enemy, the likes of which, accompanied by an onslaught of tropical diseases and poor climate conditions, incessantly degrade morale._

 _Fortunately, the Japanese attempt to capture Port Moresby has been all but halted, though vicious fighting continues on the Kokoda Track in the north._

 _To be sure, the Southwest Pacific has seen some indomitable victories, but in all it has been a devastating blow to morale, which is part of the reason I must ask you to join our allies there and assume marching army command of our forces. Your additional grade in the Air Forces shall also be acknowledged by Fighter and Bomber Groups in the area. Spirit is desperately needed on his islands, and you are the best weapon I can wield against the oppression of it._

 _You will be serving in coalition with General MacArthur, and in this position I must ask you to tread cautiously. I believe he still resents losing the Philippines—in heavy mind of the "Death March" to Bataan that followed—and that he holds aspirations of commanding the Pacific Oceans Area in cooperation with his own. His reasons for such claim, essentially, that he needs to eradicate the threat in the Pacific immediately—as we all wish to, but MacArthur's plans are ambitious and at times careless of the reality of our situation. We are facing a shortage of volunteers here at home; the life of every man in this cause is vital, and yet it appears that MacArthur would prefer to take uncalculated risks instead of conducting a method similar to how you travel, albeit at a slower pace._

 _Harry has not informed you of this, due to a lack of necessity for you to know before, but the Japanese—the chief wasters of life in this conflict—send convoys nightly to replenish their armies on Guadalcanal. In the past, these reinforcements have often come from a particulaR Base. Both MacArthur and your equivalent in Australia will be able to inform you in greater detail the workings of that which is to come. Bear in mind that they disagree how to go about it, as I evidenced when the latter met with me briefly to collect some missives. And so is my second reason for terminating your training early: I need you to bring MacArthur to a more reasonable compromise than what his current demands request of me and my staff. I know that you share my view in wanting to preserve as much American life as possible. Help those of us here at home keep that belief intact._

 _In other news, Winston's mission to Moscow went as well as optimism can allow. Stalin consented to our nascent egg, among others, but with his eponym currently in such tight constraints against the Germans, I cannot help but wonder if this opinion has changed. The Russians are holding their ground in Stalingrad, and we can only pray that they continue to with the hope of a safer world in the future. We will need them to fulfill our intentions when this war is over, as will I need you to assist in the safe return of our men and women. There is growing demand from a public concerned with what we plan to do in the aftermath, but that is not intelligence I want to disclose in a letter. It shall be saved for when we see each other next._

 _Remember, the only precedent I can ask for in these decisions is yours, Mr. A._

 _Do us both the favor of burning this when you're finished with it; toss it in the plane propellers if you must, so long as the sensitive information contained within does not have a per cent chance of meeting the eyes of the enemy._

 _P.S. My hawk as not paid another visit, but I shall keep searching. I know you cherish him._

Alfred skimmed the letter twice more before leaning back in his makeshift seat within the B-24 and blowing out his cheeks, relieved. Roosevelt had spared nothing with what he'd written, and had taken risks that would never have made it through a censor had it been mailed. Risks of a man confident that the letter stood little chance of being intercepted.

Alfred knew the President stored mountains of anxiety and rarely ever showed it. A little burst of confidence was healthy once in a while, but Roosevelt was also habitually arrogant. Too much confidence, too often, could lead to dangerous consequences. Alfred had experienced that firsthand many, _many_ times.

Nonetheless, the letter was useful, and the risks he'd taken _hadn't_ been compromised. Alfred focused on that as he studied the first hint.

The egg— _eggs_ , meaning there were three. Three landings. Torching. California in August. That could only be the Moroccan and Algerian landings. Everyone on the base had been talking about it—everyone in the plane had, too, before they took off—but he hadn't heard the announcement on the radio yesterday, and he wasn't sure that he believed it. This was good news—great news, actually. Churchill was probably ecstatic.

He hoped, wherever Ludwig was, that he felt the same.

On the other hand, Roosevelt's tangent on Eleanor was clearly another request to make the Anglo-American alliance more than a façade between he and Arthur. _Fat chance,_ Alfred wanted to write back, but Roosevelt was right to suspect that Arthur's behavior was odd. As long as Alfred had known him, he had been trapped in wars, but he had never _liked_ war. He wasn't fond of guns, and much less the Brown Bess's that were popular at the time; he'd preferred swords and longbows—something with an art to it.

Roosevelt wouldn't know any of that, but Alfred wondered what weighed on him concerning the Brits—Churchill, or Arthur. The need for the Russians at the end of the war, and a certain wariness of both groups. Alfred might have dwelled on it—he might have been sympathetic—if not for the next note.

Arthur had known for months that Matthieu was safe, and _no one_ —not even Français, whom Alfred was certain was living with him—thought to let him know. As if he wasn't the reason they were still able to fight in this damn war. Not one of them so much as considered it—not even Churchill had written, and the imperialist bulldog loved him.

He should have just written Roosevelt. Now more than ever, Alfred loathed not being in Washington. He would've made sure he knew the second Matthieu was brought across the Channel. Hell, he would have gone with Eleanor to England himself if he'd known his condition was that bad.

Scowling, Alfred glanced down at the statement which had urged the breath he'd been holding, only to suck it straight back in. _Your brother is in safe hands with Lord B._

 _That stubborn, pompous bastard._

 _Remind me to kick his ass next time I see him._ Regardless of whether or not he'd win, Alfred meant it this time. The rush of anger made his fingers clench around the onionskin paper, tearing holes where the tips of his gloves dug in.

The sound of the fine paper ripping—barely audible over the wresting purr of the engines, the tick of the radar, and the thread of loose conversation through his head set—brought him back from the verges of fury, and he forced his muscles to relax, smoothing the holes with his thumbs as he sank against the humming metal of the navigator's cubby. Thankfully, the navigator himself was too absorbed in his charts to notice the swift changes in Alfred's demeanor.

Did they think he didn't care? Was that why no one had said anything? He found it hard to believe that Arthur was cruel enough to purposely deprive him of the news, but then…

 _Anyone could see that you're not fit for the responsibility of being a nation._

 _You still act like a child._

1917\. Right. He had been that man once.

Alfred moved on, pushing against the needle of pain that pricked the back of his head at the thought. Matt was safe. That was all that mattered.

He was going to Australia, and he needed to prepare.

He let himself dwell on that revelation for the remainder of the trip, piecing together the other clues. It was clearer now why Hap had approved upgrading him. He'd been made a Captain so he could work with the fighter pilots and bomber crews in coordination the ground men—that which might be lacking in the South Pacific. Alfred had no expertise with the Navy, but Alfred suspected Roosevelt wasn't particularly concerned on that front—not after Midway. It was getting the commanders to _cooperate_ that would be the issue. That, and morale.

He'd heard stories on the home bases—stories that scared the men, although they tried to hide it. Alfred hadn't been out that way since the mid-1890s, but he remembered Honda Kiku from the fifties. He remembered the fierce denial in his eyes when Harris and Perry made their demands, the urge to fight mercilessly back. It hadn't scared him then, but knowing now what Japan was capable of, what they had accomplished, Alfred worried for the lives trapped on those islands. He wouldn't be surprised if some of them chose the unthinkable, finding no reason to continue in lively terror if he believed he would die regardless.

Spirit _was_ what soldiers needed. In this respect, flying directly into the fight on Guadalcanal or Papua would make more sense, but Alfred didn't have any equipment—or his Army uniforms. All he had was the duffel he'd left Washington with at his feet.

No one was going to believe he was a four-star general unless MacArthur told them to believe it. Hence: _tread cautiously_. Opening with a request to negotiate would not get him on solid ground. He had to play the compliant soldier first, but it would be better if he knew something other than what's already been reported in the papers, so he wouldn't be entirely useless.

Alfred had met MacArthur before, the first during his 1914 occupation of Veracruz. He'd been cocky, albeit highly intelligent, and if he had stayed any longer, they surely would have clashed heads. As it was, thirty years was a long time to forget a face, and he didn't doubt MacArthur had—regardless of the fact that they worked on the same staff for seven years before his "retirement".

Meaning that Alfred also knew his arrogance hadn't abated. More than likely it was stronger these days. He had a war to play with.

After borrowing a map from the navigator and asking a couple questions, Alfred realized that the apparent typing error in "particular base" implicated Rabul—a base that had been occupied by the Japanese since January. From the framework of the paragraph, and the abrupt inclusion of the convoys, Alfred concluded that this was the primary goal of whatever missions MacArthur was causing trouble for.

Hopkins told him about Task One, that Guadalcanal was the first secure station the Allies needed in order to go forward, but those updates had given Alfred the impression that Roosevelt's staff and the commanding voices in the Southwest Pacific knew what needed to be done, even if the going was slow. Wouldn't he be more useful in Europe?

Or did Roosevelt truly believe he could change the way MacArthur thought?

Stubborn men made sore heels; Roosevelt may be pitting his hopes too high, but if all else failed, Alfred could always resort to old ways and abuse his authority to make decisions.

In a war for democracy. Swell idea.

About an hour into his brooding, the plane dipped, dragging his stomach with it, and the pilot's announcement came through his headphones that they were preparing to land in Hickam Field to break and refuel. Stuffing the letter into the waistband of his trousers—the only real pocket he had—Alfred glanced at his wristwatch. It was midnight in California. Hawai'i was two hours behind.

Hawai'i…

He hadn't been on these Islands since the dissolution of the monarchy.

Swallowing hard, Alfred clenched the straps of the Mae West around his shoulders and waited as the green pilot and co-pilot guided the B-24 in an uneven slope downward, following the ground crew's signals. He tensed when the landing gear slammed onto the pavement, squeezing his eyes shut as the engines and wind outside crescendoed into a deafening roar. His heart leapt into his throat each time the plane jerked as the pilots tried to maintain balance on the plane's small wheels, praying for the crew's sake that it wouldn't tilt too far.

Alfred had discovered during his year of training how little he liked landing; it felt harsh, as if the ground was angry that he'd tried to escape, and it reminded him why he chose the Army instead of the Navy in prior conflicts. Seas didn't sit well with him. Land was familiar.

Skies, on the other hand, were uncharted and beautiful. For Alfred, that was paradise, and he almost loathed when he had to come back underneath the clouds, that awful feeling of being tied down, restrained by gravity.

One day he wouldn't have to. Advancements in technology happened all the time these days. One day, he'd find a way to go up there and stay.

As the plane slowed and the pilots guided it into the hangar, Alfred felt their cage settle around him, metal creaking and her crew relaxing. He offered a compassionate grin to the navigator as the man—a boy, really, he didn't look older than nineteen—looked eagerly out the window at his shoulder, sympathizing instinctively.

The B-24 wasn't called the "Flying Coffin" for nothing. Accidents and fatalities seemed to occur in this model more than any other. There were several reasons, but thinking about them while inside the plane was practically a death sentence. Despite assurances of safe skies, and _the Japanese won't get you here,_ these planes were so plagued with mechanical difficulties that they were fortunate to have made it safely at all.

When the crew received the all-clear, each man headed quickly for the hatch in the back, boots heavy and echoing on the catwalk in the bomb bay. Alfred was last to swing out, dropping onto the concrete strip with ease and taking a deep breath.

Nights in Hawai'i were pleasantly cool. He knew that from experience, and though he'd never been here in November, the change wasn't much. As he walked off the air strip—the crew settled around the plane to wait—a light breeze toyed with his hair, smelling of sea brine and fragrant _puakenikeni_ , and he heard waves in the distance. He headed for them. Neither the crew nor the engineers and supply personnel who set up to screen and reenergize the plane noticed him slip away, working steadily and noisily by the light of a silver moon. He felt his shoulders slope forward as he stepped off the tarmac, releasing formality as he weaved around the barracks and followed the curving pavement northeast.

He stayed on the grass. He could have chosen the lazier route of materializing in the spot he needed, but he wasn't certain where that spot was, and he liked the slow burn building in his legs as he trekked along the uneven ground. It was easier to focus on than what he knew was coming.

On any other night, he would have gone down to the beach and sat in the sands to wait, watching the gentle lap of the waters and the hazy blue edges where the sky met the sea.

In any other time, the windows of the field office behind him would not bear blackout curtains. Yellow lamps would light the way, and these streets, which used to be dusky earth lit with _lū'au_ torches, would not be trapped in the darkness.

It was not coincidence that he landed here tonight. There was something he needed to see, or else he would regret never knowing.

It confronted him as he crested the artificial mound near the border of the airfield, where the base became the naval yard. Alfred hesitated, staring at the tips of his shoes. Then, he sucked in a breath and stepped over the edge.

The pain of thousands hit him all together. He almost dropped to his knees and only just managed to stay in an upright wobble. His heart thudded in his chest, leaving him breathless. Almost a year later, and the tragedy was anything but forgotten. Quite the opposite, actually: Pearl Harbor was wrought into the hearts of each and every man and woman on this base. Resolution forged like iron carried them onward willingly into danger, molding with the ash and certain as the concrete they walked on.

Death lingered heavily on this soil; it hadn't had time yet to settle into the oblivions of history, and Alfred could almost sense the shed blood pulsing with his own, pounding in his ears with the force of every bomb dropped on these small swaths of land and sea. He shuddered—he didn't want to look, afraid the dead might rise—but he forced himself to lift his eyes.

To the untrained eye, the damage would not appear all that present, but in the silver light Alfred picked out the sharp black recesses of craters and dark shadows in the swaying waters with practiced ease, as if he had been there himself that morning. Perhaps he should have been.

And perhaps it was the blood guiding him, but he studied each and every one, coaxing the names of the dead from the reluctant earth with gentle whispers and feather-brush touches.

Among those on the _Arizona,_ resting within the largest shadow in Battleship Row, he learned of twenty-six sets of brothers. Of one father and son.

Their last name was Free.

Warms tears spilled onto his cheeks, dripped off his chin, and fell to the ground. Each one worked against the land's pain, soothing it by degrees with his own. It wasn't enough, but it was all he had to give, so he let them fall.

People died. They died every day. Tragedies hit and faded with the cruelty of time, and those who survived moved on. Alfred knew that, and in all truth, he shouldn't be crying over so simple an attack. It wasn't the worst part of this war, but then he'd never quite learned how to shut out his peoples' beliefs, and they believed firmly that this was the worst to happen to America since his establishment.

Were there worse times? Yes. The Civil War was one. His first battle was another. Both haunted him to this day, whereas this…he'd barely felt it. An electric ping, an ache, and then it was gone.

People died, were dying, every day, but still he cried, because this meant something more.

It meant he couldn't pretend anymore.

Whether he liked it or not, whether Britain liked it or not, he was next in line for the throne.

Alfred wasn't certain how long he stood there, but eventually an alarm went off in the back of his mind, telling him he needed to return to the airfield.

He pushed it back.

"Catch."

His instincts reacted faster than he did, a hand flying up to seize the object thrown at him from behind. His fingers wrapped around something cylindrical, and he drew his hand into view to find it was an unmarked aluminum can.

He heard the amusement in the thrower's voice. "You _are_ as swift as I remember."

Alfred turned, wiping his face as he went, and his mouth fell open.

Dressed in paint- and oil-stained coveralls, the Hawaiian woman crossed her arms and grinned, not unkindly—a sheer one-eighty-degree difference from the last time he had seen her.

"H – hi," Alfred said dumbly. Hawai'i. _Holy_ —

Her grin broadened, exposing the tips of her teeth. "It has been some time, America."

His head bobbed, blinking. "I wasn't sure if…" He wasn't sure if she would still be around after becoming a territory, although in retrospect he should have realized that last December. The dull ache he'd felt would have been much more pronounced if she had faded…died.

The bases may be his soil in all the legal terms, but it was still hers in connection. With such small area space and so large an attack, her pain must have been unbearable. A shudder twisted upward through Alfred's spine, a sadistic whisper for him to turn back around, bask in the crime and death he had brought upon her.

But he didn't dare do any of that. He couldn't even finish the statement without feeling rude.

Fortunately, Hawai'i didn't take offense, offering a soft, conciliatory smile. "Not yet, but it is beginning." She brushed a hand over her dark hair, silver strands gleaming in the moonlight. "It started on the day this"—she waved a gentle hand to the remnants of destruction behind him—"happened."

A twitch creased his brow and Alfred grimaced, but she didn't sound accusing. Her voice was too soft. It unnerved him nonetheless. "I'm sorry." _It's my fault._ But he couldn't form the words. Quite a few things from recent history were his fault, and he didn't think he could bear it if she asked him to specify which one.

She didn't. She only shrugged, eyes the warm, inviting hue of black coffee roving over the naval base at his back. Perhaps it was due to the Hawaiians' willingness for change, or perhaps it was because of how they had retained their culture in the process, but she had maintained her natural body much more than he had. While he had a few flecks of brown in his eyes and cervine-tinted skin, Hawai'i had a stocky build that she wore proudly, and her hair fell in a silken braid down her back, lacking the roughness of the Mainland and bearing a vibrant hibiscus. Alfred wondered, if he dared to take a step closer, whether she would still smell like the coconut oil she used in it.

He only realized he was staring when her gaze flicked back to him, and he jerked his down to the can in his hand, face hot.

It wasn't her beauty that captivated him. It was the courage that he knew lay beneath it, and the adventurous spirit—things he had forgotten how to live for when he came out here on Cleveland's orders in the spring of 1894 to tackle the few wealthy old men who decided to overthrow the Queen and rule without the consent of the people. Tyrants, in the simplest sense.

He tensed when he arrived and found British influence blanketing Honolulu like an itching scab. It shouldn't have surprised him by that point, but it put him on edge, especially when he looked up and found the ensign waving haughtily in the ocean breeze. He believed he could change it, give Hawai'i the kingdom her people wanted and still come out above Britain in true value, but then, on July fourth that year—the day he celebrated his autonomy, his freedom from the very nation whose presence he couldn't escape—a small rebellion of Royalists stormed the 'Iolani Palace. And when he found out Hawai'i had planned the coup from behind the scenes with the express purpose of antagonizing him into public disgrace—

Even if the aim of those who carried it out had been different and with better intentions, Alfred had been angry enough to allow the provisional government to lock her up with Lili'uokalani. He himself suppressed the reports, claiming it was to protect Hawai'i's—and by extension, all personifications'—identity. Few people know about the attempt even now, and those who did were dying out.

Only when he was on a ship bound for the Mainland—away from the restlessness of the people and the omnipresent reminder of his disavowed father—did he fully understand what he'd done. How arbitrary, selfish, and _tyrannical_ his actions were.

He heard Arthur's voice in his head then, telling him what a disappointment and hypocrite he was, and Alfred was not ashamed to say that he cried upon realizing it was the truth.

Before the Depression, it was one of the few times after his independence that he let himself believe he was anything less than great.

Nowadays, Alfred liked to think his perspective on life was changing, but neither of them could forget the history.

"What's in here?" he asked now, twisting the can in his fingers.

"Pineapple," Hawai'i answered, with a calm he couldn't hope to reciprocate. "I thought you would be hungry after the flight."

Alfred looked up, studying the open kindness in her face. "Thanks."

She nodded, watching as he opened the tin and bit into a round. "I wasn't sure if you would ever come back here, until I saw you sneak off the air strip. I thought Europe would be more important to you."

Alfred snorted and immediately regretted it when the acid of the pineapple juice scorched his throat. "Japan started it. And I can't defy Commander's orders." He grinned, hoping that statement didn't run too close to hurt. He held out the tin as a peace offering in case it had.

Hawai'i stepped forward to take a round and moved past him to look out over Pearl Harbor, chewing thoughtfully. "That is true… Americans are furious about this, aren't they?"

It struck him as unsurprising that she still didn't consider herself American; he couldn't blame her. After all, her people were depressed upon hearing the news that their land had become his territory. Forty-five years and two world wars weren't making it any easier. Not to mention that he'd heard whispers of martial law on the Islands, tensions between servicemen and civilian. Alfred really should write to Roosevelt about lifting that.

And then there were the Japanese who had made this beautiful place their home. Desperate to serve and prove their loyalty. Unable to, because of everything spread out before them.

Pausing beside Hawai'i, he muttered, "Yes, they are."

He listened idly to the lap of water against the docks until something she said resurfaced, and he frowned. "How did you know I snuck off the air strip?"

At that, Hawai'i smiled and wiped sticky fingers on the pants of her coveralls. "I help repair planes in the airfield when they are short of hands, but I usually stay with the boats in the navy yard."

Alfred would admit, he hadn't seen that coming. "I didn't know you liked engineering."

"I don't," Hawai'i confirmed, "but I need to make myself useful, and if I can make canoes with ease, working with boats seems the right direction to take."

"Well, if any of those sailor shits who think women are easy give you trouble, don't hesitate to write. I'll make sure they keep their pants buckled." Alfred winked.

Hawai'i laughed. It wasn't a sound he had heard before, melodious and lilting and perfect for singing. He liked it—even more when she turned amused eyes on him. "You've changed, America. This new man suits you better, I think."

Grinning, Alfred looked up at the millions of tiny little lights in a cloudless sky. The moon was a pale sliver in it, but it felt brighter from the ground, where there was no electric or gas lighting to push against the quiet, natural beauty of this time of night, when most of life slept. It gave Alfred the feeling that he had no limits, as if the next time he hopped in a plane, he would fly and never reach an end. Never forget how it felt to simply breathe.

He took them now, slowly and deeply. Everything from the sea salt to the tart pineapple to the sweet wisps of coconut and hibiscus coming from the strong woman beside him. Even the lingering ash and blood he took in, let settle.

"Thank you, Hawai'i." No more than a whisper, but it held immeasurable gratitude.

 _Thank you for not holding a grudge._

Another soft smile lifted Hawai'i's lips, and she stood with him in companionable silence, listening to the night's subtle sounds. Alfred didn't know for how long, and he didn't care.

For the first time since his war began, he didn't feel as though he was wasting time.

* * *

Footnotes:

 **1\. Roosevelt's letter** is an attempt to cover what's been going on in areas relevant to Alfred's location over the past several months while still offering a semblance of confidentiality. Because of all that we know now, it's difficult for me to tell sometimes what was and wasn't considered sensitive information, but I've tried my best.

2\. The "eggs" Roosevelt writes about stem from how he addressed the Torch landings to his confidants on the night of the operation; the time noted on the letter marks an hour before radio publicly confirmed that the landings were successful. Daisy Suckley notes that it was "history" by then (which means I probably messed up in the last chapter), but it could still be nascent enough that Roosevelt felt the need to guise the operation somewhat—or confuse the enemy if it gets into their hands. However you like. For what it's worth, Roosevelt also used the term "chicks" in reference to his children, most of whom served in the war, giving the terms a much more personal air than he probably intended.

The three chicks:  
a. "One has hatched": Western Task Force, which landed in Morocco on the eighth; it met with resistance before moving eastward.  
b. "One is confined restlessly inside his shell": Central Task Force, which wasn't able to land in Oran until 10 November.  
c. "One flies swimmingly": Eastern Task Force, which met little resistance upon reaching Algiers.

 **3\. "Among others":** Alfred actually missed this clue. Read the next note and think back to the Moscow Conference last chapter. Then it should make sense.

 **4\. Russians:** If you would like a clue as to what Roosevelt's statement about needing them in order to "fulfill our intentions" after the war refers to, look back to chapter four. New Year's.

As for the current status of **Stalingrad** : at this point, it had dissolved into brutal house-to-house, street-to-street fighting. Nazi resolve was _shredded_ , but Hitler would not allow surrender, and so they had no choice but to carry on in a city which had become nothing but rubble. On 19 November, the Soviets launched a counterattack of over one million men, coming in from the north and south ends of the salient. Four days later, they closed in. Remember, this is the city named after their leader. To lose the eponym of a man so ingrained in the patriotic principles of the country—and to the Nazis who loathed them, no less—would have been very much like losing their dignity—not to mention the toll it would have on heart and morale. In this regard, Roosevelt has cause to doubt, especially in the knowledge that Stalin wasn't happy about Churchill's news of no second front in 1942; he explicitly questioned whether America and Britain would keep their promise in 1943.

 **5\. Veracruz, 1914** : MacArthur (then a Captain) was not involved in the three-day battle instigated by the United States to occupy the Mexican port city of Veracruz, but he was assigned as an intelligence officer to the staff of Brigadier General Frederick Funston, who organized the administration and subsequent seven-month occupation of the city.

6\. Papua, 1942 = New Guinea, present-day

 **7\. Mae Wests** were life preservers used on B-24s, designed to let the survivor float even if he was unconscious. I don't believe crew members usually wore these while flying, but as a passenger it could be requirement that Alfred does.

 **8\. B-24s** were indeed called "Flying Coffins" and many, _many_ fatal accidents occurred in them—especially stateside. They were clumsy, a lumbering weight and delicate in construction, but they were used frequently because of their long-range fuel tanks and slender (ahem, _delicate_ ) wings. That didn't mean much to the crews; the B-24s' mechanical difficulties earned the disdain of many airmen.

Obviously, these weren't transport planes, but I don't doubt that new ones were constantly needed on fronts. The place Alfred might sit is with the navigator in his little cubby underneath the cockpit, or with the engineer behind the cockpit. In the former, he would be close to the bombardier and nose gunner, too.

 **9\. Hickam Airfield:** This base sits adjacent from Pearl Harbor; they're practically connected, but a lot of the land seems to be flat, and I imagined a downward slope for Alfred's viewing, so if I wrote some of the landscape wrong, that is my own error.

 **10\. Pearl Harbor (third time's the charm):** The familial statistics that Alfred pulls from the soil are true, if memory serves me correctly. I don't know why I remember these details in particular from the _Arizona_ Memorial, but I do, and I will admit that I started crying when I learned them. The father and son's surname isn't made up. Their last name really was Free.

 **11\. Hawai'i:** I will say right now that I am not a fan of making OCs from American states, but I believe Hawai'i and Alaska would have representations, and here's why: They weren't states at this time, and their native populations still exist(ed). Once Hawai'i becomes a state in 1959, I can see her gradually becoming mortal and—well, as Al speculated—dying. The silver strands in her hair represent that. Speaking of hair, it's my understanding that Hawaiians often go out with flowers in their hair because they're so abundant and fragrant, so I chose the hibiscus, which becomes the state flower. I hope you liked her characterization, and that it wasn't too stereotypical.

 **12\. Marshal Law:** The effect of World War II on the Hawaiian Islands was significant. Within hours of the attack on Pearl Harbor, marshal law was declared and military censors were so strict that people who spoke on the phone were required to speak in English and they could not discuss the weather, among other topics. Labor shortages were severe and crowding happened frequently due to the servicemen on the naval and air bases, which led to the tensions mentioned in the scene. Beaches were strung with barbed wire and buildings were painted to camouflage the cities. Half of Hawai'i's parks were claimed by the military for storage, all of the sugar Hawai'i produced went to the armed services, and _everyone_ above the age of six had to be fingerprinted and carry an ID card. Marshal law should not have lasted as long as it did, but it continued even when it became evident that there would be no other Japanese invasion, finally ending in October 1944.

 **13\. "Cleveland's Orders":** On 17 January 1893, the Hawaiian monarchy was conspired against and deposed by sugar plantation owners and businessmen after Queen Lili'uokalani tried to replace the Bayonet Constitution (which is as nasty as it sounds) instituted under threat of force with something more favorable to her people. Her deposition resulted in her being confined to her palace and a new government heedless of whether the people consented to their rule or not. When Grover Cleveland came into the US Presidency two months later, he refused to acknowledge the provisional government's treaty to annex Hawai'i. He respected Hawaiians and their sovereignty, which in turn earned the respects of Lili'uokalani, who frequently requested reinstatement.

 **14\. Hawai'i's Coup:** This is fictional. As far as I know, no rebellion happened on the day Hawai'i became a Republic, but the date—4 July 1894—was simply too coincidental to pass up. Combined with the Islands' British influence (King Kamehameha IV and his wife were pro-British, and the (in)famous King Kalākaua's wife represented him at Queen Victoria's Jubilee), it makes for a damn good reason why Alfred would be upset enough to leave.

What is real is the short rebellion to restore the monarchy in January the following year. Its failure led to the arrest, trial, and imprisonment of Lili'uokalani (who never really gave up the fight), and in 1898, Hawai'i was formally annexed by the United States.

 **15\. Pineapple** is a symbol of hospitality in Hawai'i. In other words, Alfred's forgiven.

 _I have done my best to be accurate and respectful towards native Hawaiian Islanders, but if there are any inaccuracies or insensitivities, do not hesitate to contact me._

 **16\. Japanese Service:** Along with being relocated to internment camps, Americans of Japanese descent weren't allowed to serve in the military, and anyone who was in it when war broke out was asked to leave. When Japan started using this as propaganda, however, Roosevelt reversed the policy early in 1943, with the result of some incredibly hardworking men desperate to prove their loyalty—notably, the 442nd Regiment in Italy and France.

 _Chapter Sources:_

1\. "Fighting for Democracy: Japanese Americans" – PBS  
 _2\. Franklin and Winston  
_ 3\. "Franko's" Map of Pearl Harbor  
4\. "Hawaii's Monarchy Overthrown With U.S. Support, 120 Years Ago" – Jesse Greenspan, History Channel  
5\. "MacArthur, Douglas (1880 - 1964)" - David Horner, Australian Dictionary of Biography  
 _6\. Stalin_ , by H. Montgomery Hyde  
7\. "Touring the British Homefront (1942)" – Eleanor Roosevelt Papers Project, Columbian College of Arts & Sciences, The George Washington University  
 _8\. Unbroken  
_ 9\. "United States occupation of Veracruz" - Wikipedia _  
_10\. "Wilcox Rebellion" – Wikipedia  
 _11\. WWII  
_ _13\. Yesterday in Hawai'i,_ by Scott C. S. Stone

 _Quote Sources:  
_ 1\. Eleanor Roosevelt: _Franklin and Winston  
_ It comes from a press conference Eleanor gave in Canterbury concerning the potential for a post-war Anglo-American alliance, and I _loved_ it. It applies to other characters, too, and would be good to keep in mind through the next chapter, but that is the biggest reason.

2\. "If—" by Rudyard Kipling: Poetry Foundation


	11. Understanding Times Pt II

**Understanding Times (Part II)**

" _Honesty is the first chapter in the book of wisdom._ "

\- Thomas Jefferson

 **OCTOBER 1942**

The first time Matthieu woke, he thought he'd gone blind again. Everything around him was cloaked black.

But slowly, painstakingly, as if they had forgotten how to operate, his eyes adjusted, and what little light met his gaze blurred with hazy, indistinct edges. All else was dark. He wanted to move, but nothing would cooperate, and soon the numb began giving way to pain—pain he didn't want to understand right that moment—so he simply closed his eyes and dissolved into the black awaiting him inside his head.

The next time, he heard voices, whispering too quietly to pinpoint names.

The third time, he saw a face. Just as blurry as light, but when something flesh-colored moved across his gaze and swept something heavy away, he smelled a familiar Parisian cologne and knew he was safe.

It was not until the fourth time that Matthieu believed he truly reached consciousness. Whatever room he was in remained indistinct when he opened his eyes, but with time and too much squinting—an action that sent electric sparks screaming through his head—he made out the edges of daylight in a window covered in blackout curtains, a heavy wood desk, and bedposts. Anything closer, and he needed glasses.

He didn't try to move. His head felt heavy and pounded so much that it cast its own heartbeat. He thought he might vomit if he tried to sit up or stand.

He didn't think it mattered either way. The question was, where was he?

And what happened? He barely remembered—anguish here, a flash of pain there—but in truth he was scared to look at the details. Hopeful that it had been too horrible to stain, dreading when it caught up with him later.

Somewhere, a clock chimed the hour—er, quarter hour. He wasn't sure, and the ringing didn't tell him much more than he already knew, but he had a feeling there was only place where he would be hearing a clock.

Matthieu winced when the door in the far right corner opened on creaking hinges. It seemed the throbbing _could_ get worse. Wonderful.

Hearing a strangled gasp, he managed to turn his head enough not to strain his eyes in order to see Français in the doorway, one hand over his mouth, a tray wobbling in the other.

Matthieu would have been relieved to see Arthur, but the settling of his stomach at the sight of his former mentor left him feeling content and oddly weightless. He hadn't seen Français since…well, he couldn't think of the date right now, but it had been a while. Decades.

He managed a tiny grin. " _Salut, Papa_." His voice came out like a scratched record, unused and dusty, but it was all he could say. His tongue tasted like paper, burning as it tried to remember how to work.

He must have slurred worse than he thought, because Français softened and stepped in, shutting the door with another loud creak. "I began to wonder if you would ever wake up." His hair fell over his face as he laid the tray on the side table—what Matthieu presumed it to be, anyway; his far-sightedness wasn't changing—but the tremor in his voice was unmistakable. Matthieu felt Français's hands shaking as he helped him take a drink of blissfully cold water.

"W – what do…you…mean?" he forced out, once the glass had departed. Why couldn't he talk properly? It was starting to bother him.

He heard Français wring something—what was it called? Matthieu couldn't think of the name—into a bowl, the sound of running liquid loud in the dimly lit space. Then he brought the damp square close and began to wipe the perspiration off Matthieu's neck and chest with gentle strokes.

"No, I don't suppose you would remember yet," he muttered, in French, and sighed. "Does the raid on Dieppe sound familiar?"

 _A_ _wash rag._ That's what it was. Matthieu felt proud of himself for a moment, until Français's comment registered. Then the dread of he'd felt upon considering what led him here intensified.

He nodded once.

He thought Français may have been upset, because he would not answer as he replenished the wash rag and proceeded to scrub it along his arms.

Matthieu knew his English wasn't cooperating, so he tried French—and a different tactic. "Am I in Arthur's home?" _Much better._ More natural, anyway.

" _Oui,_ " Français answered, sounding relieved, and there was a hint of a smirk when he spoke next. "Did that infernal clock _les rosbifs_ call 'Ben' give it away?"

Matthieu wanted to chuckle, but he didn't think he had the strength, so he merely rested a weary grin.

Without pause, Français set the rag aside and moved up to his head, beginning to unwrap the heaviness encapsulating it.

"You were shot in the head, Matthieu. It has been over a month since you were returned."

Matthieu didn't have the energy to feel surprised, but it certainly explained why he was having trouble recounting things.

As if Français had awoken his senses with those simple declarations, a new, burning pain flared inside his skull when the bandages came off—like acid eating away the bone. Or maybe that was the bone breathing. Reknitting itself. It made him want to scream all the same.

His forehead crumpled instinctively, and he moaned. That only made it worse. One of his hands, spurred by shock, started to scope for the wound, but Français caught it and set it back down on the quilt, examining the injury himself. He didn't seem overly bothered by what he saw, because he didn't leap from the bed to find new bandages—or, better yet, Arthur. Matthieu chose to take that as a good sign.

"Here," he said eventually, and Matthieu felt the water glass press against his bottom lip. "Water will help."

When he drank, and the glass was back on the table, Français took Matthieu's hand and squeezed, hard. Matthieu felt the bone of his knuckle under his thumb, the soft hairs on the backs of his fingers, and he didn't need any glasses to know the indignant crease in Français's brow as he said gently, "Why do all the worst injuries seem to happen to you, Matthieu?"

He was saved the trouble of responding by a firm knock on the door. Français's hand left a warm, soothing trail on his skin as he went to answer it, whispered urgently with the person on the other side, and then Matthieu fought another painful wince as the door groaned loudly open.

Arthur sent a glare to the hinges for him. "Need to oil those," he muttered.

"Don't expect me to do it." Français looked spectacularly miffed as he returned to the bedside with a new set of bandages and gauze. The door was left open—thankfully.

"No, of course not," Arthur retorted, crossing his arms. "Why should you? You refuse to so much as launder the clothes." He ignored the beginnings of Français's self-denial and looked to Matthieu with a small smile that did nothing to disguise the worry in his gaze or the exhaustion underneath. "Can you see me? Blink twice if you can," he added quickly, registering the dismay in Matthieu's face.

Grateful, Matthieu blinked twice towards the bedposts where he stood.

Arthur's grin drew a little relief. He had been there the first time Matthieu was blinded; he knew firsthand how aggravating and painful Matthieu's sight was to return. "How much do you remember?"

"I do not think much," Français answered for him, clinging to speaking French. Arthur's lips pursed, watching him bandage the entry wound. It was somewhere near his right eyebrow, where the buffer between his skin and skull was thinnest. If he had the willpower to, Matthieu would have wondered how a bullet managed to get through or under his helmet.

"And you know this, how?" Arthur asked, clinging to English.

Français shot him a solemn look. "You know how it feels to be so shaken that your mind refuses to remember the details."

Silence fell, and Matthieu understood that whatever he was alluding to, Français was wrong. Arthur knew the details. Matthieu didn't think he realized how tightly his hands clenched.

"I believe he is having trouble speaking English as well," said Français, blessedly tacking away from irritating his host. He unwound new strips of gauze and started to wind them around Matthieu's head. "Try asking him a question."

"I did, idiot," Arthur groused, but jerked up his chin and said to Matthieu, "We'll have to wait on a new pair of spectacles for you—that is, until the Munitions Office has some wire and glass to spare. They've needed every square they have as of late."

"I have a pair at home," Matthieu tried in English. The language came easier than earlier, and Français looked briefly put out that he'd recovered so quickly, but he slurred; the statement came out sounding instead as, "I haff a pa _errr_ ath 'ome."

Arthur grinned indulgently. "I'll fetch them when I can, then. Unless…you'd like to, France?"

Français's fingers barely shook in their course. " _Oui."_

Another discordant silence fell then, and it occurred to Matthieu that they were trying—trying not to dissolve in argument. For his sake. Arthur was letting Français play the father he missed being, and Français was expressing his gratitude by refraining from insult. It was rather a nice change, but Matthieu felt something was missing. A key component to this uneasy truce that could have made them closer to a family.

Something he should be commenting on, perhaps. Something he should be worrying about.

He couldn't right then. What little confusion he allowed was making his head pound again, so he shut his eyes, ready for sleep.

The memory of the raid, and all else that he lost to the trauma, came back in pieces in the weeks following that early morning. At night he saw shells crashing; in daylight he heard them exploding. In sleep he saw blank faces—those of eager, buoyant men—floating in shallow waters or sprawled on a beach head. In waking hours he swore he smelled blood and iron and sea brine in the damp air of Arthur's portico.

Among them, one face in particular haunted him, blurry and alive and intensely urgent. It spoke to him, but he never knew what it was saying.

These were simply dreams of the memory, and Matthieu had experience enough to know that no book from Arthur's library could rescue him. That his best option was to ride the wave until it wore itself out. He knew this.

And still, he fought it.

For the sakes of those men—boys, really—he had to. Moving slowly in this war was not an option. Nearly everyone in the Second Division had been wounded or killed in Dieppe, and by all accounts Matthieu should have died, too—that is, he should have been captured—but neither Arthur nor Français would say how he was returned to safe arms. In this they actually seemed to be working together for once, to keep Matthieu from knowing.

All he knew was that Arthur was reportedly furious when he learned that Bomber Command's desperation for a great air battle came at a careless loss of life.

Matthieu was touched by their concern. There were times when he missed being Français's protégé—overbearing as he could be—and others when he wished Arthur had cared about him the same way. His injury appeared to allow both of them to make up for lost time.

But it irritated him that they felt the need to withhold information from him as though he were a child. In comparison to their age he was, but outside their microcosm he was respected and valued and responsible for more weight than a child could ever bear. He wasn't as fragile as they wanted to believe.

One afternoon, during Arthur's prescribed ration-tea time, Matthieu discovered the missives from his prime minister in a pile of mail Arthur asked him to sort through. All of them requested word on his condition and when he would be returning to Ottawa.

When Matthieu questioned Arthur about them, however, he answered simply, "Put in the correspondence pile. I'll write back and give him an estimate."

 _Punkeydoodle,_ Matthieu thought. He would be wasting his time on a write off, and—if the grey shadows under his eyes could speak—he already looked stretched in every direction. Answering Mackenzie King was something his secretary could do easily if he had one.

It was something he could do, easy.

Matthieu snuck into his study later that night, brought the telegrams to his room and slid a response, sealed and addressed, into Arthur's completed pile the next morning. He noticed a stack comprised entirely of Canadian documents nearby as he did, and so it became that late in the night, when he woke from nightmares and had no desire to sleep, he worked in secret. By the light of candles he found boxed in his bedroom closet, used to keep his caretakers in the dark of his actions, he refreshed his memory on defense systems, industrial and aide expenses, the training program that drew aspiring pilots and navigators from all over the Commonwealth, the numbers and names of his men in combat or waiting for deployment, and—unfortunately—the identification documents of those being interned for suspected relations with enemy nations. It was cruel work, given his unannounced leave of absence, and it forced him a number of times to all but reveal his secret to Arthur, nudging information out of him through queries, but it was rewarding. It reinvigorated his purpose and gave him a vassal of ready information to have on hand for when he finally did return to Ottawa—in essence, enforcing his status as a Dominion rather than a colony under British control.

Yet, even after sorting through the plethora of bills, he still felt as though he were missing something crucial.

Nonetheless, Matthieu took pleasure in his private rebellion. Despite his approval of Matthieu's daylight meanderings around the city—which, naturally, Français disagreed with—Arthur was adamant that he not over-exert himself, citing mental stress and liquidation of his progress as worthy reasons to slack in contribution to the war effort. Confined first to his bed and then to the oblivion of citizenship, Matthieu quickly began to recall how the wounded in the hospital tents felt lying in bed with nothing to do. It was aggravating, and he yearned for the mobility of a never-ending agenda and his mediating role.

The worst part was that the opportunity was there. Arthur was clearly at straits with the sheer amount of work on his hands, running to and from their Westminster residence with a trembling sort of anticipation that only seemed heightened when he returned—whenever he chose to, that is. Circumstances forced him with increasing frequency to stay out late into the night, and by then it was pointless to return, so he roomed with the Churchills in the Annexe instead.

The times he was home, Matthieu often found him in urgent conversation with Français—conversations which would cease the moment he stepped into the room, both of them attempting to divert his attention with pleasantries or shallow rows. Eventually, through bits and pieces, Matthieu recalled the conference in June, the development of a looming plan. He remembered the cracks in Arthur's articulate shell that day in the hall, the stark white gauze he glimpsed under his sleeve as he held a knife to his throat.

The expectation, the trepidation of failure he understood. It was the fear that bothered Matthieu, but he kept mum, for none of what he discerned was communicated to him directly—rather, he utilized the advantages of being soft spoken, preferring to think he would have made a good spy had he any interest in sabotage.

Eavesdropping wasn't the wisest idea considering Arthur's justified paranoia of national security, but it was the only way he could learn anything when paper was rationed so heavily here that newspapers scrambled to make the most of an onslaught by slicing it into tiny chunks of print, and the radio only told Matthieu what he already knew.

He needed something tangible, something to remind him of what he was missing, because he knew there was. From that first morning in early October it nagged his damaged brain, but whenever he thought upon it, the answer slipped away. Recalcitrant little beast, it was, but that, combined with his desire to ease Arthur's workload, drove his efforts—always with the hope of hearing more.

This was how his life went for two weeks—an amalgamation of healing, frustration and empathy. Then, late one night as he and Français sat in Arthur's study after dinner, the former pretending to read while the latter worked, it changed.

"How have you been sleeping, Matthieu?" Français asked abruptly, disrupting the light hum of rain on the roof.

He looked up. "All right, I suppose."

Français chuckled, writing with one arm stretched across the back of the upholstered armchair, fingers combing through oddly greasy locks. It was a position Matthieu had come to associate with confidence, or—as was often the case—triumph, but his unkempt condition had alarmed him when he was conscious enough to register it. His sense of style hadn't changed, but it was leaner, less variegated—a reminder of how poor Français was in this country.

And it wasn't the first time, sadly. "You have always been an honest person, but I wonder who taught you to lie?" he said amicably, grinning cheekily at his former colony. When Matthieu merely blinked, waiting, it fell and he added, " _Angleterre_ may be clever, but he cannot control his emotions when he feels strongly about something—or someone."

Matthieu rolled his eyes, fighting not to express the throb his head awarded him for the action and wondering yet again why, of all the places on his body, he had to be shot in the head. "Like you?"

Français's lips pursed. "I am flattered, but that is not who I meant exactly." He tossed a file onto Arthur's crowded desk and sighed, as if all the slightly haphazard stacks were his. "Now, answer me truthfully, how are you sleeping?"

"I'm sleeping as well as can be. Why?" Hoping the lie wasn't obvious, Matthieu folded his arms and dropped his gaze down to the book. The words blurred on the page in front of him. Was that weariness or the headache sprouting under his temple?

Français frowned and scratched his chin, scanning his posture, and Matthieu fought the urge to shift. After an incident last week where he blacked out in the middle of dinner, Français had rarely let him out of his sight. Few mornings dawned anymore when Matthieu woke not to find him slouched in a chair by the bed, and no nights fell on days where he didn't follow him all over the house. When Arthur didn't relent on Matthieu's walks, refusing to deprive him of the need to rebuild his muscle strength, Français insisted on accompanying him outside, too, when the fresh air became sea brine and puddles became Channels.

It was enough to drive him mad, but Matthieu didn't want to further postpone the day when he could officially resume his duties. He didn't want to be stuck here forever.

"That is interesting," Français murmured finally, returning to the work Matthieu jealously craved. "I should have thought, if you are well enough, that _Angleterre_ would have relinquished some of his work to you in anticipation of _Madame_ Roosevelt's busy itinerary tomorrow—or perhaps a role to fill—but ah, well." He waved off the notion, but Matthieu's blood ran cold.

He knew. Finally, after a fortnight of poking and prodding, he remembered.

"Alfred. Oh, God—I never wrote him!" Matthieu dimly heard the spine of his book snap as he shut it and tossed it onto the desk, but he wasn't worried about incurring Arthur's wrath as he threw off the quilt and stood, desperate to contact his brother as soon as he could find out where he was—only to have his plans dashed when his knees gave out from under him. A throbbing ache shot through his temples, and all fell black.

Again.

* * *

When he woke, it was to Français bending over him with a creased brow and eyes glistening with the firelight to his—left? Behind the sofa? He didn't know. He didn't care.

"How long—this time?" he asked, shakily. Words always came slow in the first moments.

"An hour," Français returned—equally faltering. He sat back on his heels, and Matthieu noticed his hands were trembling fists. "You were unconscious for an hour. It is midnight."

Matthieu scrubbed a hand over his face and groaned. He loathed these short-circuits, partly because they were making Français angrier than he had seen him in a long time.

Head injuries took heavy tolls on personifications—second only to decapitation, in fact. Where it was rather difficult to function without a head, a severe wound could leave any of them comatose for months. That meant endless time lost, and the personification wouldn't know the difference when he woke. Matthieu had seen it happen only once before, when Prussia was shot in the temple during a skirmish between British troops and American militia.

It made sense, when he considered it. Bone had to knit itself back together, muscle and veins needed to remold, skin to scab. Cerebral damage took longest to repair, and until then motor function faltered and responses were slow. All of this meant that, even after Gilbert woke some weeks later, Ludwig still had to depend on Alfred for a—

Alfred. Damn.

Rather than panic and get up too quickly, Matthieu simply relaxed into the twilled upholstery and asked, "Français, does Alfred know what happened?"

His mentor's nose curled. "What does your brother have to do with your—"

"Just answer the question. Please." Never hurts to be polite.

It worked. Français sighed and said gratingly, "I do not know. _Angleterre_ is in charge of communications."

 _No, in other words_. Matthieu was almost certain that Arthur wouldn't risk his dignity by being the first to reach out, and he couldn't count entirely on Roosevelt or Churchill's focus being on him long enough to inform his brother, which meant Alfred may have gone for months without any word from him. He must be worried sick.

For the first time, Matthieu felt real anger bloom in his stomach. If only Arthur trusted him or Français enough to handle a situation alone, if only he could set aside his pride long enough to do his duty to Alfred as a fellow representative, this situation wouldn't have occurred.

Yet, neither of them had so much as mentioned Alfred. He had no updates—he didn't know if he was still in training, if he'd graduated, what base he was on—and he was the only person outside of Washington who was supposed to receive them. What was happening to them? To him?

It was as if Arthur purposely wanted him to forget his loyalty to his brother.

But…surely someone had told Alfred. _Surely_ he wasn't clueless and worrying. How could Arthur be that cruel? He wouldn't.

Would he?

"Where is Arthur now?" Matthieu asked cautiously, turning his head to watch Français's reaction.

He scowled. "Why do you want to know?"

"He's a registered field medic. He would know what to do so I don't pass out again." It was a stretch; truthfully, Matthieu knew what to do from his own training, and he had the license to prove it, but he hoped the white lie didn't show on his face.

That prayer died when Français listed his head, and a slow, irate smirk crawled on his lips. "I am not saying."

"Why? I'm not—"

" _Oui_ , you are. You will go to him if I tell you, and the last thing you ought to be doing is walking, driving, or _land-jumping._ Stay here, understand? I am going to get some water." Français waited with a hard stare until Matthieu reluctantly consented before rising and leaving the study.

The door stayed open.

Matthieu held his breath while his footsteps faded, calculating the time it would take for him to reach the kitchen in the lonely servants' quarters of the basement.

Because, for all their enhanced senses, there wasn't any possible way Français would hear the window open from down there.

* * *

Technically, if he was an ordinary citizen, he would have been requested to stay inside after sunset, and there was little point in being out anyway. Blackouts and white search lights were the only entertainment available this late, with sirens piercing the night hanging tangibly on his shoulders. Together with the drizzling haze they painted the bleak reality of the world and country around him; even Buckingham Palace looked vacant, dark and grave, although Matthieu spotted sentries behind the gates as he cut through the grounds between their lot and Arthur's in the palace gardens.

Despite its best efforts to the contrary, the City was little more than a mess of craters, chunks of asphalt and rubble, and burns. The parks had been reduced to storing grounds for all that remained. Shops were looted, shelves empty—those that were still standing. Some of the taller buildings wavered in the wind, the rooms that once held living human beings gaping like open sores, missing their other half.

Matthieu wished he had the heart to pay more attention to it all. It could have told him about Arthur's true fears. Instead, in spotlighted darkness, his feet took him all over the City, through chipped puddles and crumbling cobblestones to the places where Arthur's presence lingered strongest, but it was difficult to discern exactly where he was currently when everything he felt was his to begin with.

Around midnight Matthieu finally gave himself a break, dropping with a breathless sigh against the side of a caved-in bookshop on Commercial Road to massage his knees. They felt like rocks tied to his legs.

God, he felt old. Far older than he should feel, and Matthieu knew it was because he wasn't letting his body heal properly. Français was right; he shouldn't land-jump. His body couldn't withstand the pressure, especially across long distances; otherwise he would have gone to Santa Ana himself.

The problem, however, was that he didn't have the time to sit and wait. Wars didn't wait.

Just then, as though to mock him, the clock tower began chiming the hour. Each _dong_ shot through the gentle patter of rain on the stones and the tattered awning above his head to make his head ache.

Shot. Huh.

Matthieu felt gingerly along the puckered skin above his eyebrow. Still tender.

He dropped his hand. He would be lucky if he didn't pass out upon immediate arrival, but if he had any hopes of making sure Alfred knew he was alive, land-jumping within the boundaries of a nation was a better risk than crossing oceans.

Maybe he was making too big a mission of this, but he knew Alfred. He knew his brother had enough on his mind and whether or not his brother was safe was not a worry he needed. If that meant forcing Arthur to meet with Alfred, then so be it.

Standing straight, Matthieu closed his eyes, let his own intuition pinpoint where he needed to go, and took a step.

One moment the drill sirens and Ben's eleventh stroke were loud in his ears.

The next, only the stroke of midnight could be heard, distant and likely a figment of Matthieu's sense memory, filling in what he should have heard.

The wind was fresher wherever he ended up, clean and untainted by the city's close smoke and fishy river. It cleared the growing fog in his head, the one that made him want to vomit from the pounding of his blood behind the gunshot wound.

Matthieu stood in the same spot, eyes firmly closed, until he could hear the wind's whistle in his ears. When he felt steady, he opened his eyes and found himself standing in the drive of…Chequers. The country estate of the Prime Minister.

And in front of him, the Prime Minister himself, cigar hanging limp on his bottom lip as beady eyes stared. One hand clutched his jacket lapel. The other grasped the open door of a motorcar, holding himself up as much as being polite.

And beside him, Arthur, managing to look both weary and livid.

* * *

For one terrible moment, Arthur thought it was his brother. By the light of the risky lantern between them, he saw the wet hair and the gleam of glasses and his mind leapt to Alfred.

Why, he wasn't certain, but when he realized it was Matthieu, he couldn't decide whether to be relieved or upset. He settled for both.

"By God, is that you, Mr. Williams?" Churchill grunted, recovering enough to manage a pathetic stage-whisper. "I haven't seen you upright since the Dieppe debacle!"

Matthieu shook sopping hair from his eyes and regarded him with a misleading smile of confidence. "Evening, Prime Minister—or, morning, I suppose. It is midnight. Sorry, I didn't mean to pop in like that, but since you're here, may I have a word? It's about—erm…" He glanced at Arthur warily and cleared his throat.

Arthur had an inkling of what, precisely, this was about, but he was too tired to play guessing games, much less fend off the inevitable question of how Matthieu had managed to appear without a trace or means of transport, so before Churchill responded, he simply ordered, "Get in the car."

Matthieu frowned, pulling his hands from his pockets. "But I _do_ have questions—"

"And I will answer them. Now _get_ in the car." Arthur felt the glower on his face and couldn't muster the energy to be sorry about it. There was more—oh, plenty more—he would have liked to say, but he couldn't in front of Churchill. Not without revealing too much.

On the other hand, Matthieu appeared every bit in the mood to argue, mouth spread in a thin white line, but he humored Arthur in the end, offering as polite an _adieu_ for the Prime Minister as he could manage before scooting past him, bending into the motorcar and slamming the door.

Arthur sighed and pulled out his cigarette box. He was going to need one if he was dealing with a man who'd suddenly reverted to a _child_ tonight _._

"Here, Lord Britain." Churchill offered his cigar with remarkable quiet, though perhaps it was the simple nature of the life around them at the moment, banked in storm clouds and moonless night.

Arthur touched the tip of his damp smoke to Churchill's and took a puff before he spoke, gathering his thoughts into a veneer of equanimity. "Apologies for that, Winston. I told France to keep him occupied, but it seems I've forgotten how unwilling to follow a simple request he is." He offered a strained grin for Churchill's affable—if not lackluster—chuckling and held out his free hand, eager to escape this situation as quickly and harmlessly as possible. "Until tomorrow, then? I'll have the motorcar here by dawn for Mrs. Roosevelt."

The question was in Churchill's face, glittering golden in his pale, glossy eyes—as spent as Arthur's with the knowledge that their existence would only grow more exhaustive from here but still managing to ask just what he was, exactly.

Arthur wished he had an answer that would satisfy, but the boy in his car had all but exposed their true power moments ago. Churchill knew quite a bit about Arthur's status—more than most of his class, given events—but in spite of his trustworthiness, he was still human, and _that_ he could not trust.

All he could do was dip his chin and stretch his grin into a coy smirk—grimace, actually.

Another frozen moment passed in the rain before the Prime Minister acquiesced and bid him good night. Arthur waited until the lantern light disappeared behind the door and he heard the lock click before sliding wetly into the driver's seat, relighting his cig and fulminating, "What in _blazes_ possessed you to be that idiotic?"

"I didn't—" the boy started, huffing, but Arthur wasn't done.

"Were you even aware of what you were doing or were you acting as usual on pure impulse? You know we can't just _pop in_ in front of mortals. _Dammit_ , lad, this had better be an emergency or so help me—"

"In my defense, I didn't do it on purpose," the boy inserted sulkily, arms crossed and glaring out the windshield. "I was looking for you. Churchill being there was an accident. I didn't think—"

"Precisely. You weren't thinking."

Alfred's head snapped towards Arthur, eyes flashing. "Don't pull the I'm-smarter-than-you ploy with me, Arthur. I'm not a child anymore. I know the risks of my actions, and I'm sorry, but like I said, it was an _accident._ " Huffing, he slumped in the seat, appearing in every respect the child he claimed he wasn't. "I'm not sure why I bothered. You and Français seem quite happy to keep me in the dark because you think I'm still too sensitive to handle my duties. You'll act like pals to help me, but you won't give a damn about Alfred."

Arthur rubbed his temples, suppressing a sigh. That's what this was about? Their attempts to help him _heal_? His inkling was wrong then; he'd thought his problem concerned the looming Torch Operation.

But, no. It was the alliances.

Of course it was. Was he ever going to escape that infernal child? And since when did the lad think he knew more than _Arthur,_ who had at least eight hundred years' more experience?

Child, indeed.

"You're still convalescing," Arthur grated, as kindly as he could manage under a staggering case of irate exhaustion.

Matthieu glowered. "I feel fine. I may not be as powerful as you, but I'm still a nation, and a big one whose been quite a bit of use to you materially. I bounce back quick."

"You're an awful liar, lad." Yanking the ignition and putting the car in gear, Arthur pulled onto the drive without a backwards look. "We haven't kept you informed of late for a good reason, Matthew. Whatever you say, you _are_ still healing, and taking unnecessary risks like this endangers not only yourself, you understand. It endangers all of us." Tobacco smoke escaped his mouth like dragon's breath as he spoke. "How did you get out of the house, anyhow? I told France specifically to keep an eye on you."

"I snuck out," Matthieu groused.

"You snuck out," Arthur deadpanned. "Bloody hell—do you realize that France will likely lock you in a room when he realizes what you've done—when I tell him what you did? Do you think he's going to be proud of his little prodigy then?" Arthur glanced away from the road long enough to scour the lad's face, expecting a flare-up—wanting a flare-up—but he found only a war between anger and guilt. It puzzled Arthur at first, but then it made him angry.

 _Now_ he feels sorry, after all this time—

"Are you sure it's me you're talking about?" Matthieu muttered finally.

Arthur huffed through his nose and stared resolutely at the road, jaw working.

They were both stubbornly quiet as he started towards the City. The silence in the car grew to be almost oppressive. Only the engine vied for conversation, and when Matthieu eventually rolled down the window to let the rain join in, Arthur suspected it wasn't purely because of the thin fog and heady smell of his smoke blanketing the ceiling.

By the time they reached the north side, where muddy paths turned into cobblestones, Arthur was relatively calm, he wore another precious cigarette in his lips, and Matthieu finally spoke.

"Does Alfred know?"

"About what?" he grated.

"About me—what happened."

Arthur stayed silent long enough that he was certain Matthieu thought he was ignoring the question. When more oppressive silence threatened to follow, he responded. "I never communicated the news to him, no. _But,_ " he added, when Matthieu opened his mouth in protest, "Winston gave word of your condition to President Roosevelt last August after you were returned, whom I presume passed it on to him. I don't know anymore than that, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't ask."

"But I'm supposed to be getting updates on his condition," Matthieu persisted. "Where have those been going?"

Arthur didn't want to say that he burned them after reviewing them, but he did. The only reason he read them at all was because he knew Churchill wanted updates and hadn't the time to look over them himself—or so he claimed. "There's a letter in my case from the president."

Matthieu practically leapt for the briefcase, digging through the papers until he found the silky cream stationary with Roosevelt's sharp scribble of an address. He tore it open and read hungrily through its contents, reciting them under his breath. Arthur rolled down his own window so he wouldn't have to hear it.

At the end, Matthieu cast the letter a dubious look. "He's going to Australia?"

Arthur flicked ashes out the window. So much for that plan. "Southern hemisphere, brilliant. He can escape those winters he so detests."

Matthieu studied Arthur's face a moment and sighed, folding the letter into the envelope. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I don't understand what you mean."

"You—both of you—didn't say _anything_ about Alfred these past two weeks, and I can't figure out why. I can't believe either of you would be cruel enough to intentionally neglect his needs." Matthieu set the letter on the console between them closed Arthur's case with a telling _snap_. "Did you want me to forget about him?"

"Forget worrying about him, yes, for a time," he conceded. "You are more important at the moment—"

Matthieu all but tossed the briefcase into the back, and Arthur bristled, hoping the clasps didn't tear the leather. "He's my brother, Arthur—my younger brother. I can't abandon my duties to him, and I promised I would write him after Dieppe. I promised to let him know that I was okay—"

"Aren't we special?" Arthur shot him a condescending glance. "Even exemplary brothers slip up now and again."

"Sorry to disappoint, but I'm not Alasdair. I'm not Cymric or Aodhán or whoever the hell the new kid is. The fact is it's been months since Dieppe, and as far as I know, no one has told him that I'm in safe hands," said Matthieu sternly, with a scowl of palpable disappointment, frustration, and—most surprisingly—real anger. "Don't you think that's a little reckless—not to mention dangerous? Alfred's not some little kid anymore. And he's not a nation who takes kindly to being—"

"If you think I'm going to sit here and listen to you teach _me_ about that boy's motives, you'd best stop while you still have a chance of escaping this unscathed," Arthur growled, grasping the wheel so tightly his knuckles hurt. He refused to succumb to Matthieu over this. "If you exert yourself too heavily, you'll fall—"

" _Stop it!_ God—for once, Arthur, please, shut up and _listen_ to me—if not as your Dominion, then as someone who cares about you both!" Matthieu burst, waving his hands as if he needed to paint the picture for him. "Alfred deserved to know what happened. Twenty years ago would have been a different story, but he's _changed_ , don't you understand that? I know I've said some poor things about his character over the years, but he isn't that man or that boy anymore. You should have seen him when I went to Santa Ana last summer. He looked about ready to kill the person who planted the mine—"

Swerving jerkily around a pothole in the cobblestones, Arthur chuckled humorlessly. "Murderous tendencies do not signify a responsible nation, Matthew. You ought to know that."

"He doesn't have murderous tendencies—I'm only saying that he cares. He's focused, he knows what he needs to do, and I'm willing to bet he learned that from you—"

"Matthew—"

"Because like it or not he is your son—"

Arthur slammed on the brakes.

Matthieu nearly flew through the windshield before he cursed above the squealing and braced his hands on the dashboard as the car slid to a stop on the side of the road, sloping onto the curb.

Chest heaving, Arthur parked it and turned slowly to face him.

Blind fury. That's all there was, and he wanted to use it. Badly.

Matthieu must have seen it in his face, because he paled. He knew he'd gone too far. "Arthur…"

"He is _not_ my son."

"Ar—"

"He isn't my son, weren't you listening?" he snapped. The rush of pent-up rage felt brilliant on his mood, like the sense of freedom being on the sea once gave him, and in spite of his better judgment he relished Matthieu's flinch. He sank deeper into the abyss.

Leaning close, Arthur's voice dipped to a low, feral growl. "He disavowed that title long ago. Whatever our relationship may be now, I don't need anyone—especially not one as young as you—telling me what he is or isn't to me. It isn't relevant to the alliance." Jerking Matthieu's chin up from the space where it was sinking between his arms, Arthur finished lowly, "Do I make myself clear?"

Matthieu nodded, his knuckles white on the wood and eyes wide.

Arthur relinquished his stubbled chin and faced the windshield. He was starting to tremble, and he didn't want Matthieu to be anymore the victim of whatever came out, so he thumped the heel of his hand against the dashboard, leaving a dent in the pretty polished wood that the chauffeur tomorrow was going to be right pleased about.

But, realizing it was a Ford, he did it again. Then he shoved out of the car, muttering curses all the while. He wanted to scream them at the night, he wanted to punch something—he kicked the motorcar's bumper and considered bashing in one of its lights—but there was nothing else nearby save a whiskey warehouse with burns on one side, crumbling pavements, and a crater where a pub once stood. Nothing but an empty cavity under his sternum.

Chest heaving, Arthur collapsed against the bonnet and ran his hands over his face, raking them through his damp hair, all the pressure of anger giving way to the resting sorrow he'd always known. The anger wasn't worth the mess, he realized—not when the cause was a man who, whether he liked it or not, could fix the messes he'd made. He was certainly wealthy enough…wealthier than Arthur would ever again be, much as he hated to admit it.

Ivan was right; he'd realized it that very night. Many times, he'd feared this city, his heart, was lost to invasion, to blood and fire—even to its own foppishness. Many times, he'd felt that threat like the tip of a knife. These days he felt it constantly, throbbing its own beat with the widespread paranoia that ate at his core. These days, now that the bombings were resuming on cultural centers, the blade edge drew close enough to cut. It couldn't be long before the target once again became London.

The ground hummed underneath his feet, offering what comfort she could. It wasn't much, but then Arthur should have been the one uttering reassurances—not that it would have made a difference. No longer would he make a promise he couldn't keep when he never coped well with broken promises himself.

 _You promised me, Alfred!_

That one, especially.

Why did his world always rain on the days he most wanted to forget?

Arthur was drenched and shivering by the time he slid back into the car and shut the door. Rainwater slid down his neck and collar, dripped from the jagged tips of his hair and clothes onto the seat as he leaned into it. He longed for a blanket and tea that wasn't half-strength, but he was forced to settle for switching off the ignition and watching the blackout-slitted headlights blink out.

He couldn't waste the petrol.

After a long moment, in which Arthur realized he was going to have to clean the leather when they returned home or else it would mildew, Matthieu's timid voice floated towards him from the hands in his lap.

"I'm sorry. I crossed a line."

Arthur's lips twitched, staring out the windshield with a washed out gaze. "I will let you resume your paperwork duties and assist with operation plans if you don't jump again." Matthieu glanced up with a tentative frown, to which he simply responded, "Not that you necessarily need permission. I've seen your notes and signatures in the Canadian documents on my desk."

When Matthieu didn't answer, he turned his head to see him withdrawing slightly into the seat, as if he feared he would hit him. The uncertainty sat uneasily in Arthur's stomach. He had never laid an abusive hand on Matthieu—and rarely ever Alfred—but he couldn't find the words to assuage his doubt. Sentimentality and mollifying were never his strong points in parenting.

But he did his best now, making certain his tone carried gently. "Deal?"

Matthieu raised his head slowly, and Arthur noticed that his hair was drying into loose, frizzy curls, putting some blessed difference between him and his brother. "Deal."

Nodding resolutely, Arthur restarted the car with heavy eyelids and drove. Matthieu picked Roosevelt's letter off the floor and clasped it tightly in his fingers, as if he wanted to feel Alfred's presence running through it.

Arthur spared it a glance, debating whether or not to tell the truth. "You needn't worry about him." _Liar._ Was he?

He was, and an expert one, but he knew what he needed to do.

Matthieu turned away from the window with a small, trying smile. "That won't change how much I do worry."

"I know."

Reaching out, extending a hand was something Arthur was awful at, but he couldn't help wondering:

Last January, Alfred had been begging for acceptance, and he'd been willing to cut deep to find it. If that were true elsewhere, and he was forcing old wounds open, what did peace look like to him?

What would the war give that in a sad sort of paradox prevented ruin yet caused it?

In that scenario, Matthieu's concern was justifiable. It worried Arthur, too.

And yet the silence this time wasn't quite so overbearing. There was too much going on in their heads to make conversation.

They were nearly through Green Park, a mere minute from home, when Matthieu whispered, "I should have been captured at Dieppe."

Arthur glanced sidelong at him as he turned into the hidden lane to his private grounds. "You were," he said softly.

If Matthieu was shocked, he didn't see it in the mirror, nor did he hear it. The lad was becoming quite the diplomat. "Who brought me home, then?"

The motorcar trundled to a stop in front of the carriage house, and Arthur shut off the engine. A glance at the windows revealed a twitch of the blackout curtains in the guest bedroom, meaning it wouldn't be long before Français plunged into the wet, ruining his precious fabrics for one of the few things in life he valued more than materials.

Willingly, he would do that.

Opening the car door, Arthur spoke over his shoulder.

"Germany."

* * *

Footnotes  
 **1\. Eleanor Roosevelt** visited the British Isles in late October through mid-November 1942 after being invited by the Royal Family to see "the role that British women were playing in the war" (Meacham 198). Her schedule was busy enough to keep the Churchills on their feet, but she said nothing of it, nor did they say much to Roosevelt when he asked Winston and Clementine to keep him in the loop, and it appears Britons loved her all the more for her indefatigability.

 **2\. Slang:** _Les rosbifs_ literally means "roast beefs", and has been used as a French insult since the 1700s because of how popular a dish it was among Englishmen. It's mildly offensive, like "frog".

 _Punkeydoodle_ is…odd. On one hand, it's a town name in Ontario (Punkeydoodles Corners) and is said to have earned it from the local tavern owner in the 1800s whose rendition of "Yankee Doodle Dandy" sounded like "Punkeydoodle" (he was German). On the other, it's a Victorian term meaning "to fritter away time", or waste it. The latter meaning is what's used here, but the former is worth noting to establish a Canadian connection.

 **3\. Second Division:** Of the 4,963 Canadians who went into Dieppe on 19 August 1942, "3,367 were killed, wounded, or captured" (AAHII).

4\. The impact of World War II on Canada was drastic in terms of their economy, industry and international relations. They started the war with a cautious attitude, intent on small involvement, but during the long period when Britain fought alone against the Axis Powers, Canadians threw caution to the wind, and stores of food, munitions, and medical supplies became an essential lifeline for the Isles.

Enlistment, on the other hand, was purely voluntary until 1944. Conscription would become inevitable then, but because it demolished the country's men during the First World War, Canadians would not have it.

The training program referenced in this chapter is the British Commonwealth Air Training Program begun in 1939, which ended up training over 100,000 pilots and navigators before war's end—almost half the total Allied airmen. This also boosted the economy by allowing for the construction and equipment of airfields and a development of Canada's aviation industry.

In the long run, the war served as the final thread for Canada to cut as a colony of Britain. In essence, after Pearl Harbor Canada became a satellite of the United States, and the two countries' interactions during this time laid the foundations for their relationship for the next seventy years—particularly in regards to defense systems, which Canada did not have much of at this point in time.

 **5\. Internees:** The Aleutian campaign in mid-1942 and the Battle of the Atlantic, in which U-Boats brought the war home to Canada (see chapter seven for dialogue and British Empire footnotes, note seven, for further information), led to indiscriminate detainment of German, Italian, and Japanese immigrants in Canada, beginning as early as 1939. Over the course of the war, Canada set up around 40 camps containing a total of 30,000 – 35,000 people.

 **6\. Names of the British Isle Bros.:** Because these are fanon names, I chose to do some research and have emerged with (hopefully) authentic names for Scotland, Wales and Ireland. If you spot any inaccuracies, however, or have anything to add, please do not hesitate to let me know.

 **Scotland:** _Alasdair_ is the proper Scottish Gaelic form of _Alistair_. _Alastar_ is Irish Gaelic, while _Alistair_ and _Alastair_ are Anglicized forms. All of them are variants of _Alexander_ , however, and mean "Defender of the People".

 **Wales:** _Cymric_ is a variant of _Cymru_ (pronounced "come-ree"), the traditional name for Wales. I don't think it's a real name, but I've used a different variant for another character of mine (original, not fanfiction) and think it's unique.

 **Ireland:** _Aodhán_ comes from _Aodh,_ a diminutive of _Áed_ —pronounced "ay" (like bait, cane) or "ee"—which was a super common name in early Ireland meaning "fire", after a Celtic sun god. _Aodhán_ was in use by the 500s AD. (Fun fact: _Aodhán_ and, similarly, _Áedán_ are the original forms of the Anglicized _Aiden._ )

 _Chapter Sources:_  
1\. AAHII  
 _2\. ALHC  
_ 3\. Baby names. Com  
4\. Behind the name. Com  
5\. "Bizarre Town Names We Couldn't Make Up" – Dictionary. com  
 _6\. A Dictionary of First Names_ , by Patrick Hanks and Flavia Hodges  
7\. "Dieppe Raid" – Wikipedia  
 _8\. Franklin and Winston  
_ 9\. "Internment in Canada" – Patricia E. Roy, The Canadian Encyclopedia  
 _10\. London at War,_ by Philip Ziegler  
11\. "The Top 10 Unfortunately Named Places in Canada" – Gabrielle Samek, The True North Times  
12\. "Touring the British Homefront (1942)" – Eleanor Roosevelt Papers Project, Columbian College of Arts & Sciences, The George Washington University  
13\. "Why do the French call the British 'the roast beefs'?" – BBC News

 _Quote Source:_ website of Monticello, VA, part of the Thomas Jefferson Foundation, Inc.


	12. Interim: Resistance

**Interim: Resistance**

The crawl space was a closed casket. A grave with rotting boards on damp earth walls. No lining whatsoever, but would it be silk, if it were?

No windows in the casket, no hiding places, not a barrel that might once have been used to age wine, when this city was free to be. This was no place for a man to make a living.

It was one for a messenger. One for children to starve, as the girl whose knobs for bones he could feel through his clothes did—does, every day.

The silence of her mother in the kitchen was more fearsome than the stomping of SS men who ripped through her possessions and turned over anything large enough for a six-year-old child to hide inside. This silence scared him, for the messenger couldn't tell whether it was because she wasn't breathing or because she was dead.

She couldn't be dead, he reasoned; he hadn't heard gunshots. Though there were many ways to kill someone, it was unethical. Though they shot men and women and children every day for arbitrary reasons:

 _*_ too slow,

 _*_ too feeble-minded,

 _*_ too weak,

 _*_ too imperfectly human,

the mother was not the objective this moment.

As her daughter trembled in his arms, the messenger allowed himself a moment's look around, absorb the details for the story he would tell one day, but then there was a thump overhead, dust rained, and the girl squeaked before she could silence herself. Both she and the messenger held her hand over her sore-ridden mouth. Waiting. Without breathing.

He stared at the hatch, the old crate he heard the mother slide over it when they beat loud—so loud—in the street.

Then it was yanked open, and the girl was dragged, screaming, from his arms.

The messenger was thrust next into the dim light of the mother's kitchen, and he struggled to find a sense of equilibrium amid shrieks and pleas of a mother and growls of truly heedless SS men to shut up as they were all hauled into the loud street—to be shot, he realized, dimly.

He was going to be shot soon.

The sky was bruised bluish and purple. A bare glimpse of it he was granted between the slatternly brick edges before a hand shoved him in the back. Soon the sky would be black, and starless. Absent of souls that should have been there—to watch, perhaps, or to pity. To hope they died quickly.

It is true that the messenger will die, but it is not because he participated in hiding the child, though that is the excuse they will use. In their eyes just another white armband, another blue Star of David.

The messenger wasn't Jewish, but in that moment he felt himself become one, like the Catholic clergy who are persecuted in his homeland, too. Neglected, forgotten.

There are enough people in this ghetto that the idea should easily have taken hold, but the messenger did not join the line of resisters—those brave fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers who protect their children and siblings.

The messenger would have joined them, but he was steered away from the street. Away from the little girl shoved into a wagon with her scared strong generation. Away from the other wagon of still warm bodies. Away from all those waiting to be brought home. Underground.

Slowly, his hands rose into the thick air, pale palms steady flashlights. His past whispered that he was allowed to fight. The present dictated him to fall in order—accept his fate—die.

Why?

First shots ring out loud.

Telltale _thumps_ follow quietly.

He gnashed teeth, biting the urge to fight out of air that could taste like ashes one day. All it smelled like now was rotted fuel.

With the right flame it could burn. He could fight. He wanted to fight. Wanted to fight, _needed to fight—_

The SS man steering him like one of the pretty and shining VWs on the outside. Darkness is the color, like the sky but its soul is tarnished, artificially bright. He barked an order to turn left, showing him with his gun what he meant. Another round of shots followed it, echoing and rippling the opaque fabric stretched across the horizon, then… Silence.

He had no choice.

When they reached the _Judenrat_ offices on Grzybowska Street—those whose lights when lived in by rulers blazed in the night hour, believably unafraid—the messenger couldn't help but see how well it fit the Nazis and their ideas. Simple walls lacked expression—or, rather, suppressed it. Boxy structure reflected systematic ways, like a train on a one-way track.

Within them, he knew what he could expect: a perception of liveliness—with the whip, with knives and bats—only to look in their eyes and find that they were as dead as those they beat. He did not question that he would suffer before the _Schutzstaffel_ killed him. That idea had been written in his blood before, become the certainty in his life of uncertainties.

Still, he thought of the scars on his wrists, wondered whether he would have to open them again.

Steps before the entrance, the building spoke from its shadows. " _Halt, Hauptscharführer._ "

Immediately, the soldier stopped and flung his arm into the air. The precision of the act may have been congratulated if not for the words it meant, and that he gave life: " _Heil Hitler!"_

Knowing what would happen if he didn't, the messenger copied him. The world burned as he did, carrying with it all the horrible smells and sounds. Air that tasted like ashes. Screams that shuddered windows. Not one day. Here and now.

But this man will say something one day. Something that is written on murals to commemorate him, something that is remembered as a sole explanation for why people didn't come to save the Jews.

It goes: "He, who does not condemn, acquiesces."

And the next line—even more potent but not as well recalled: "The blood of the innocent calls to heaven for retribution."

The longer he watched, a uniform made from night's harshest dreams separated from the emotionless wall and stepped into the street, pale gaze flicking over them both before parroting them back in a voice that quaked the ground with its power.

The messenger noted it was unenthusiastic. "I will take over from here, _Hauptscharführer._ "

And, for all he pretended not to understand his language, he felt himself become a ghost. Felt his skin tingle as his resister's soul threatened to depart and blood froze in the streets. When he dared to lift his eyes, let them wander over to the officer, he found himself staring at the curled, gloved fists at his sides. He imagined the weight they could throw, the bones they could crush in a simple stroke.

This, surely, was Death himself.

The messenger could run. He has every right to, and the street is wide enough, empty enough. He should run, actually. Even if it means being shot, he would still die resisting reality. God, _why isn't he running?_

Terror is traitorous.

Every person in this war knows that.

There is no shame in wanting to save your own life.

With his feet rooting and his knees locked, the messenger swallowed, hard. His hand twitched, and the scar rubbed along the fabric of his tired, inked-in shirtsleeve. _I don't want to die,_ it says, and weeps. It was madness, to be so afraid. Running would have been stupid, but it just might have been brave.

The sky was a single shade of black as the barrel of a pistol returned to the messenger's side. He heard the grind of leather as the _Hauptscharführer_ 's fingers tightened around the trigger. Suppressed a shudder. " _Oberführer_ —"

" _Jetzt bin ich Brigadeführer_ ," he growled, under the sound of more shots that flared orange in the sky—orange, or red? They could have been the deepest sunsets, but the messenger did not see them. He did not dare look up. The time to thank God had not yet come.

What he did see—the expression—shocked the messenger; it appeared like pure fury on him, but the mask was not quite good enough. One of many nightmares crossed his gaze, a haunt wrinkled his nose and cheekbones.

The truth, he realized, is anguish to Death.

His correction appeared to be all that was needed, for when the _Hauptscharführer_ conceded to the superior rank, he—like the messenger—had no choice. They reiterated their allegiances, and his lips thinned into an obligatory line as the _Brigadeführer_ swept the messenger into the _Judenrat_.

He wondered: was he willing to die with his secrets? For them? The messenger was. Better to die with a closed mouth than to live with it gaping. Those above him could forgive him dying, but he would not betray them by destroying the silence.

Yet.

The _Brigadeführer_ did not stop in any of the square, clean rooms. They did not pass anyone in the short, narrow halls. Once, when the messenger dared to glance over, he found focus and depth in his stare—none of the shallowness the officers and Aryan policemen here bore. It widened when they reached another lacquered door at the end of the main corridor, and the messenger half-expected him to kick it open, but he opened it gently—a hairsbreadth wider than his own head, as if setting up his own guillotine. He glanced both ways, and then reached back for the messenger.

"Come with me," the hand said. Why?

The next he knew, he was being hauled through the greyest alleys and side streets, between leaning and tired buildings—the searching threads of the ghetto where life and decay wore strongest, smelled openly of hope and despair.

His uniform and the messenger's dark suit let them blend with the shadows, but the camouflage, he soon discovered, wasn't necessary. They met no one—not a single patrol, not another prisoner—on their path. The messenger began to think that he possessed some Life when only the sounds they made filled their surroundings. Boots thumped on cracked pavement, war medals clanged, guiding with an expertise that avoided the high walls and barbed wire, misled the omnipotent barracks. It was a route he would have taken on any other visit to escape.

He wasn't shamed to admit that, when he realized this, the messenger considered ripping his arm free and running in the other direction, but a crawling sensation in the pit of his stomach knew that the _Brigadeführer_ would find him, no matter where he hid, or how. Death is rather omniscient that way, but—

You already know that he is not Death, don't you?

They reached a section of wall facing busy Chłodna Street on the other side, and the messenger's heart sagged further with dread. Here was supposed to be a Warszawa secret, a small slice of hope in a sagging world of endless despair. Here was where the caged _Tiere_ came to talk with the free, to plot and yearn for escape. Here marked the spot where the messenger became a silent observer or walked free.

He knew. Oh, God, he knew he was an informant.

And still he let him go, approaching the night-blackened brick. Against it he knocked once, twice, with an equally night-black fist, and received an answer of gunshots behind—far behind them, but there was only so much space to hide in a square mile. They would be found eventually, and how could he be certain that the _Brigadeführer_ wasn't stalling until then? His life, as he said, is a cycle of uncertainties, and his missions had caught him from behind before. Once.

One day, who knows, they might again.

This wasn't a risk he could take. The only reason he followed the _Brigadeführer_ was because he was ordered to and dragged. He turned to the tall brick bodies bracing shoulders to hold one another up, searching for a sliver of space to hide inside between the pronounced bones of their skin. He looked intentionally towards the darkness, not realizing that it would be certain death if he went.

More shots. Springing poppies screaming _remember me._

The messenger's foot turned to gather them—their faces, if nothing more.

"Stay where you are—please," the _Brigadeführer_ grunted in stilted Polish, and the messenger froze. The officer's back was to him, and his loafers were light on the brittle grass, but he wasn't certain which shocked him more: the fact that he heard him move, or that he was willingly speaking a language considered inferior by his own people. "It will only be a minute."

Questions crawled up his throat, but he wondered if answers would only sit in the back of his. It was enough of one, he supposed, that the _Brigadeführer_ moved with urgent purpose, peeling off one of his gloves like a layer of dirt and tossing it over the wall.

Despite himself, he asked.

Question number one: "What are you doing?"

Answer number one: "Waiting."

The _Brigadeführer_ braced his hands on his hips. One pale and stark while the other blends in.

The messenger stopped breathing.

A moment passes of this utter stillness, this frozen second that would last eternally—until he died—in the messenger's memory.

Then came answer number two: " _Come on…_ " The _Brigadeführer_ peeled off his cap and raked a hand through tidy, un-waxed hair that now didn't look quite as yellow as the messenger initially thought. Soon it fell in dried, drooping petals across his eyes. Cloaked in a sheen of ashes from the burning air.

Question number two, this one unspoken: What was he doing here? There was no sense for a general-grade officer of the SS to be in a lowly ghetto. Unless, perhaps, for inspection.

On a night like this? They knew to stay away. Blindness, when they wanted to avoid responsibility. What they witnessed, or what they didn't, couldn't betray them.

So they think.

"Waiting for what?" Question number three.

Its answer was coming, but when the _Brigadeführer_ looked over, he looked past him, and his eyes widened. Three long strides, and he was near enough that the answer might have been shared in the manner of the secret it was, but only pain burst in the keeper's jaw. He slammed into the ground, making a sound in spite of himself, and when he looked up there it was, what he expected all along:

 _*_ a gun pointed at his face,

 _*_ power, an entire house of it, and

 _*_ piercing pale eyes

flicking over the darkness in his, begging him to keep quiet.

"You _will_ salute to the _Führer_ or you will not have a tongue to speak with. Now, repeat, if you will: _Lang lebe der ruhmvolle Führer,_ " the _Brigadeführer_ snarled. His oath fed torches at the messenger's back, lit the air into blood red fear. The ground burned. His hands scorched, and he wanted to pull them away, to place them somewhere cold and silent. The _Brigadeführer_ 's mouth.

Ludicrous as the idea was, he couldn't stop staring. He watched it disappear.

The messenger didn't understand why. Had he expended all his courage in another language?

Was he willing to die with his secrets?

Running was pointless. The messenger had spent the war running—always running—but he knew now that, regardless of his defects, to run from the _Brigadeführer_ would be diving into the hawk's numerous and steely claws, where here he had the dimmer pain of his single beak. His silence in the SS men's fervor was telling, and if he meant to betray him eventually then so be it, but for now his was the only safety available.

The words fled his mouth with the certainty of a lie, the kind that satisfied the men who didn't look too closely when they tore apart homes and minds. They broke the messenger's heart.

This would be his last visit to the ghetto. He couldn't save a child like this, as the last threads of flesh attaching a limb to the body.

He wanted to save them all. The sort of extremist love for humanity with all its flaws that gifted him that thought…

God, if He's watching, He sees it on fire in the _Brigadeführer_ 's heart, too. There the torch blazes.

The messenger, human himself, can only catch the gleam from the entryway.

As soon as the SS men were gone, the _Brigadeführer_ 's stowed his pistol, crouched, and made to speak, but the messenger—he couldn't help himself. Can humans ever?

"Why?"

The _Brigadeführer_ 's wide-eyedness crinkled like onionskin paper, dissolving the second a resonated from the alley. A scream. They listened to a scene that had been repeated throughout hundreds of homes—more like thousands, or millions—until the messenger heard him say, quietly, "Anything defined by walls, whether they are made invisible or solid, is bound to change."

The face staring painfully at the silhouettes on a puppeteer's stage, when the messenger studied it, wasn't bound by age, if ever it had been. In it laid the possibility of a map—of rivers and lush plains fringed by mountains, of pale suns and cloudless skies. The breath of it rose in slow, controlled passages.

But there were no bridges on this map. Only walls.

It denied itself peace. Tracks of silver steel raced through. Ink splotches devoured burns.

Black ate the pain, white exposed it. Or maybe it was the other way around.

The whole image was difficult to tell.

His last question: "Why save me and not the children? They are the ones being deported."

The _Brigadeführer_ didn't smile, exactly, and it wasn't a pleasant one at that, but it was, above all, an emotion. True and genuine.

"You will understand. One day."

 _Smack._ They turned. His glove had returned.

The _Brigadeführer_ helped him onto the wooden footbridge at the intersection of Chłodna and Żelazna, whispered of the broken barriers at its center. Then he melted like Death into the recesses between locked rib cages.

This was the first of two times he saw Germany.

As the days will pass, he will begin to understand what that means. When strained faces on the other side of the wall secret him to their safe haven, when living eyes in skeletal faces blink at him from a huddle in the basement. When he sees real food in a starving child's hands, sacrificed by thin-petaled flowers to make certain they live when others cannot.

Naïve, perhaps, but resistance is always hopeful.

* * *

Footnotes:  
 **1\. Jan Karski (b. Kozielewski):** A resistance fighter, a diplomat, a courier with photographic memory, it is from his perspective that this is written. He began the war in the army but soon found his way to the Polish underground and work as a courier—hence, his nickname here as "the messenger". Throughout October 1942, he was smuggled into both the Warsaw ghetto and the Lublin camp, and it is these visits that drove him to become a voice for the Jews and to convince the Allied governments of their massacre in Poland. As we know, however, his accounts were met with little responsive action in both Britain and the United States. Disheartened but undeterred, he worked from the US throughout the remainder of the war and for long after to keep the memory of the Holocaust alive.

 **Scars on his wrists:** In 1940, he was captured by the Gestapo while on a mission and tortured for information. Fearing that it would work, he cut his wrists and was sent to a hospital, from which he escaped.

 _A special thanks goes to **viennese. caffee** to _ _for introducing me to the story of this incredible man._

2\. The Warsaw ghetto was the largest of its kind in Poland. This was in part because the capital housed the largest Jewish population in Europe and the world—second only to New York City—with a total of 350,000 people. 12 October 1940 began the development of the ghetto following implementation of Nazi laws similar to the Nürnberg Laws the previous November. At its onset, an estimated 400,000 Jews were forced to live within a 1.3 square mile area. Ghettos were established as temporary districts by the Nazis, and so it grew smaller as time passed, but over the next four years, hundreds of thousands would die from starvation, disease, deportation to labor or extermination camps, and resistance to the latter.

 **3\. "White armband, another blue Star":** these were what Jewish inhabitants were required to wear in the ghetto.

 **4\. Catholic clergy:** It is true, in Poland's case, that Catholics were also persecuted. William L. Shirer's _The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich_ cites a diary entry of General Franz Hadler which references a looming "house cleaning" of the Polish clergy (as well as the Jews, intelligentsia, and nobility) (874).

It would also be relevant to note that Jan Karski was born a Roman Catholic and remained so throughout his life, but because he felt he failed in his mission to save the Jews, he is quoted saying in a 1981 speech, "And thus I myself became a Jew. And just as my wife's entire family was wiped out in the ghettos of Poland, in its concentration camps and crematoria – so have all the Jews who were slaughtered become my family."

5\. Ludwig's division here of _Brigadeführer_ in the _Schutzstaffel_ is in the largely administrative, or paramilitary, division of the _Allgemeine-SS_ , likely a personal upgrade from _Oberführer -_ (which was seen as the last field-grade rank before general) - granted by Hitler himself in order that he may have the proper clearance to be in meetings, etc. as more than a _Wehrmacht_ (Army) leader. Of the other two divisions, the _Waffen-SS_ were comprised largely of operative troops, and the _Totenkopfverbände-SS,_ or "death's head units", were largely relegated to the concentration camps.

6\. The _Judenrat_ ("Jewish Council") offices comprised the Nazi-established organization responsible for administrating the Ghetto and carrying out orders from them. Roles ranged from chairmen to policemen, but there was no question that they were still considered inferior in Nazi eyes, who did not hesitate to shoot them if they believed they were not following orders.

 **7\. Chłodna Street:** The description of this section of wall as a meeting place between people on both sides is—as far as I know—true. Karski's entry may not have gone exactly like this—in fact, it probably didn't—but I hope the detail adds a glimmer of reality to this section.

8\. The wooden footbridge at the intersection of Żelazna and Chłodna Streets was erected on 26 January 1942 for Jews to cross between the small and large ghettos (divided in December 1941) without touching the so-called "Aryan" side of Warsaw. It seems to have been closed in August 1942, and today it exists as a symbol of the Holocaust.

 _Information Sources:  
_ 1\. "Allgemeine-SS" – Wikipedia  
2\. "The Envoy" – Yad Vashem, The World Holocaust Remembrance Center  
3\. "Ghettos" – Holocaust Encyclopedia, United States Holocaust Memorial Museum  
4\. "Jan Karski" – Holocaust Encyclopedia, United States Holocaust Memorial Museum  
5\. "Jan Karski" – Wikipedia  
 _6\. The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich_ , by William. L Shirer  
7\. "Uniforms and insignia of the _Schutzstaffel_ " – Wikipedia  
8\. "Warsaw" – Holocaust Encyclopedia, United States Holocaust Memorial Museum  
9\. "Warsaw Ghetto boundary markers" – Wikipedia

 _Inspirations:  
_ 1\. The deportation of children from the Warsaw Ghetto: _The Storyteller_ , by Jodi Picoult  
2\. Stylistic components: _The Book Thief,_ by Markus Zusak  
3\. " _Lang lebe der ruhmvolle Führer"_ : a variant of _"Lang lebe unser ruhmvoller Führer_ " in "Don't Let Me Die", by Slovenskych. Used with permission.

Some of this, I do not doubt, is inaccurately depicted. After writing this, I discovered that Jan Karski was once smuggled into a camp disguised as a Latvian soldier and wondered if that was how he went into the Warsaw ghetto, too. I don't know, but when I first read about Jan Karski I knew I wanted to write an interaction between him and Ludwig. Their missions seemed so similar that, if Ludwig existed, it seemed inevitable to me that their paths would cross at some point.

I hope this makes sense, and that it doesn't read like the abstract ramblings of a wannabe writer. The Holocaust is difficult to write about, and to write well and respectfully. I don't know if I've done that in your eyes, but I do know that—at the least, between the lines of Alfred's, Arthur's, Matthieu's stories—it acknowledges that which could have laid buried and unknown if not for the efforts of courageous people like Jan Karski.


	13. Changing Minds

**Changing Minds**

" _Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end.  
_ _But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."  
_ \- Winston Churchill, November 1942

 **9 NOVEMBER 1942**

In a way, Darwin was Pearl Harbor.

Aside from the fact that every instinct in his Boston skin was telling him that it was much too humid for this time of year, that was the thought crossing Alfred's mind.

Darwin had been attacked.

Darwin had been hurt. Darwin had been bombed, and the whole of Australia's people wanted revenge—or so he assumed.

The black holes in the pavement were the same all over town, some newer than others. He'd seen the largest of the damage from the navigator's window, but the small details struck him as he wandered through the streets, from every empty unloved house to the breadth of the unfilled craters. His shoes scuffed dirt over the edge, and he watched the pebbles clatter down without ever hearing them hit the bottom.

At the naval docks, sunken ships around the harbor cast long shadows in the pale moon's light. As he sat down to wait, Alfred couldn't see the stars reflected in the inky pools—not even a glimmer in a ripple molded from the sea breeze outside the bay—and he smelled oil in the air. If he turned, he would see the curled, contorted metal of bombarded oil tanks whose fires left ashen streaks on the ground, leaked heavy rainbows into blue waters. Wandered sluggishly over to the blackened planks of the dock underneath his hand. It made him wish he had a name for everyone, everything, but this was all new to him. New, and yet generally the same.

The B-24's navigator, a Captain Van Pelt, told him that after the attack—a date Alfred didn't remember; he'd left Washington by then and news reports were minimal—Australia built a credible air defense here while the navies had all but abandoned it. What he hadn't said was that the town would never be the same. That much would have been clear even if Alfred could extract the memory from the ground.

As it was, all he felt was the consequence of chaos. Some American life had been lost here, and Alfred felt its hollow beat reverberate from the rusting mast sitting like a still buoy outside the bay, but if he truly wanted to know, to compare, he would have to ask like a human being.

Not too long ago, that lack of awareness would have bothered him. He would have wanted to suffuse the numbness with the action and livelihoods of his own people displaying the addictive and thriving power of republican democracy. It was a romanticism that existed here, in a sense. Alfred could feel the living blood of his airmen, sailors, and marines on the bases if he focused on it.

Right now, however, it was simply liberating for him not to have to feel the push. Time hadn't quite caught up yet, and he wanted to keep it frozen tonight. He didn't want to think about war again. Not yet.

A whimper floated up from his lap, and Alfred grinned, scratching behind the ears of the black and white kelpie. "You know what it's like here, don't you?"

The dog's glittering gaze drooped, and his head dropped back to his leg. He was well fed, and Alfred suspected he belonged to someone on the RAAF field, but when he nearly ran him over with happy tail wags and a lolling tongue after Alfred emerged from the field office, he didn't see the harm in letting the dog stick around. He was good company, and it wasn't as if either had a choice. It was early morning, and the shift on duty claimed to know nothing about MacArthur being in Darwin, leaving Alfred stranded in a country he knew almost nothing about other than it was a semi-independent British colony. The crew he'd flown in with had been indelibly fatigued by the time the pilots landed unsteadily—almost drunkenly—on the runway, and the slam of metal had jolted those around him awake long enough to wonder idly if they were going to die tonight; Alfred had seen it in the navigator's face. Even if they knew where MacArthur was, and he doubted it, he didn't have the heart to ask them to fly anymore.

He could have taken one of the P-40s and gone searching himself, but it would have been a waste of desperately needed fuel. He couldn't track mortals, only sense them. Nonetheless, he couldn't find it himself to be upset that Roosevelt simply assumed in his letter that he would know. It was a careless facet of his humanity—or perhaps as brilliantly hidden behind the obvious as Alfred's existence was—and the sort of confidence they had both personally exposed too many times, but it was the natural response he could expect from a man he'd spent a decade in office with.

The day they met after his first inauguration would have been a touching one from an outsider's perspective. Alfred hadn't approached the steps of the White House in years up to that point, and the psychological consequences of the Depression had stolen what energy he had for inspiring interactions. The New York speakeasies and his debonair loves of the last decade had felt like a dream long evaporated, and yet Matt somehow convinced him that he needed to be there in order to ring in a new, responsibly prosperous era. What better way to begin than with a new president working on the same page?

So, when that day in March 1933 came, he dressed— _properly_ , Arthur had reminded him, much to his aggravation, in full suit and tie—and went to wait in the Oval Office. To this day he would swear that George Washington's painted gaze had been alive, both condescending and reassuring. Warm specifically because Alfred was still so young, even if he didn't feel it.

He'd been surprised when Roosevelt was rolled inside on a wheelchair; in every photo he had seen, he was always standing. Alfred _remembered_ him racing about the Capitol on his own two legs as Assistant Secretary of the Navy. Someone murmured _polio_ in his ear and he understood instinctively that to say anything would condemn their relationship to formalities for the rest of his life, so he simply waited for the room to empty, assumed an attentive stance that would have made any army general proud, and told him. No embellishments, no exaggerations—which, frankly, hadn't happened since the first non-Founding Father president, John Quincy Adams. Back then, his rambling had more to do with trying to prove his value than any seated arrogance, but that changed after Andrew Johnson.

Roosevelt remembered. He smiled amicably, said it was good to see him again—especially without that smug smirk on his face. Without thinking, Alfred remarked that his hadn't changed. Roosevelt said nothing for a beat, and Alfred panicked in silence, but then the President laughed and told him to take a seat. They were going to have a drink and exchange ideas for how to beat the Depression.

That day marked the first since Black Tuesday that Alfred felt something close to sturdy contentment, something that wasn't sad or angry or unhappy. In the same time it took to understand the nuances in some of Roosevelt's masks, he learned again how to smile. As he studied how Roosevelt responded to observations with confident affirmations or denials, and to wise suggestions with the assurance that he could take partial credit in the end, he remembered how to laugh.

Call it insensitive to the circumstances of his ordinary citizens, call it romanticized by the advent of a reflection of his past, but Alfred wouldn't be in the position he was now if it weren't for the life Roosevelt gave back to him. The memories of their many nights spent chatting around the fireplace in the Red Room brought a grin to Alfred's cheeks as his fingers scrubbed along the dog's coarse fur.

The reverie shattered, his skin rising in goose bumps when the dog barked. Only then did Alfred hear the approaching steps.

"Gunner?" A hopeful voice. "Where are ya, mate?" Definitely Australian.

Alfred's fingers fell away from the pistol in his coat as the dog bounded off his lap and ran, nails scrabbling across the swollen wood, toward a silhouette that appeared atop the hill beside the oil tanks. The silhouette responded in kind, jogging down to the dock and crouching to receive him. Alfred hadn't sensed him come near the naval base; the dog was sharper than he was.

Huh. That was new—or maybe he just needed sleep.

Reaching for the duffel at his knee, Alfred pushed to his feet and followed.

"Where've ya been, mate? The whole base has been out looking for you!" Australia beamed at Gunner, ruffling his fur and scratching under his snout. His smile was white, and his eyes glittered, but Alfred's first impression was that the moonlight didn't suit him. It darkened hair that stood up like thick tree bark, bleached the bronzed skin on his arms and exposed a thick bandage across his nose as if it were intended to be a great secret.

He needed the sun. The moon filtered too much.

"He's been with me," Alfred called. His voice carried easily across the boards, but any amusement in it dulled when the man he spoke to looked up and the beaming relief slid off his face. He started to stand, but Alfred leapt hastily to explain, "He came to me when I landed, about two hours ago. I didn't know who he belonged to, so I let him tag along." Pausing far enough away from Australia so as not to seem as though he towered over him, he listed his head and gave a disarming grin. "This is the first time I've heard of a base going on red alert for a dog. He must be special."

"He's definitely special…" said Australia quietly. Gunner licked his still hand for attention, but he simply blinked, stupefied.

Alfred lifted an eyebrow, which apparently registered better than words, because Australia shook himself out of his stupor enough to respond more openly, "Gunner's our—erm—early alarm system, if you will. It's sort of important that we keep him alive and well, but he must've gotten locked out of the barracks—where's Percy, boy? You know where Percy is?" Gunner's tail wagged fiercely at the mention of whom Alfred presumed was his owner, and Australia's smile returned, rising. He stopped nearly level with Alfred—an inch or two taller, actually. "Thanks for keeping him company, Mr. America—er, General. Permission to return him to the barracks, sir?"

Alfred blinked, thrown. He started to say that he didn't need to ask permission, but then another thought occurred to him, and he skimmed Australia's dirt-camouflaged jungle green shirt and shorts, searching for any patches or chevrons that might indicate his status. "What's your rank, and which branch?"

Australia's shoulders spread slightly. At his feet, Gunner stopped panting and plopped down, clearly anticipating that Percy would have to wait longer. "Lieutenant Colonel, Army. I do some noncommissioned flying for the Air Force as well."

Alfred nodded, adjusting his glasses. "I see." He wasn't general grade. That explained some of his behavior, although not why he was bowing to a foreign entity. He didn't want to assume it traced back to his colonizing representation, no matter how tempting-it wasn't Arthur, not really—but he decided to play along. For the moment. "Take your time. I'll wait here."

Australia split a lopsided grin. Combined with the bandage on his nose and faint shadings of a bruised eye, he looked like a kid, and Alfred couldn't help but smile back, despite how the serious relief in its edges made him turned his stomach.

Australia beckoned Gunner to follow him up the hill, and Alfred dropped his duffel with a rattling _thump_ back on the ash- and salt-corroded boards and faced the harbor, feeling oddly disheartened. He could have guessed that other, younger nations would be anxious to meet him; he remembered feeling honored to be in the presence of France and Prussia—even more so that they agreed to help him secure independence. That they were doing it in the spirit of vengeance on Arthur hadn't registered much until it became clear that Français had little intention of supporting his claims after the war, preferring to help his pal Antonio—just like Arthur had warned him they would.

Yet, not for the first time, Alfred wondered what sort of stories were circulating—had circulated—about him, whether the reputation he'd fostered of stubbornness to the brink of hedonism was the reason Australia had been so surprised by his presence. Whether Alfred's attempts at ease and amiability would only make him more apprehensive. People like MacArthur he knew only reinforced that hardy and somewhat trivial façade, and the gods only knew what Arthur had spat about him over the years—or Matt, now that he thought about it.

It had been a long time since he'd been off his homeland, Alfred concluded—too long.

" 'Fore I forget—" Australia reappeared at his side—Gunner, too, bounced at his feet—digging in the breast pocket of his uniform and producing an envelope. He offered it with a decidedly eased conscience, looking happy to be rid of it for a reason that Alfred soon discovered: "Britain dropped this off last week. He said to make sure you got it."

Alfred glanced down at his name on the folded stationary and winced. It was definitely Arthur's handwriting, the cursive he had never been able to replicate, and from the trenches his thumb sank into when he brushed it over the ink, it wasn't an acceptance letter. "Or else what?" he asked, without thinking.

But it was clearly the right thing to say, because Australia chuckled. "I'll be sentenced to transportation and one hundred and fifty-four years' hard labor."

Alfred cracked a grin at that, although he wasn't certain he was supposed to, and turned the envelope over, digging one of his nails under the wax seal. "If that's what happened to your nose, you scraped out fairly clean, I'd say."

"That almost would have been easier, but no. I got into a bit of a fight last night. Bastard had huge fists, broke my nose." He shrugged nonchalantly, but unlike some of his previous points in the conversation, it bore nothing of insecurity or uncertainty. He simply acknowledged it happened and hoped Alfred wouldn't look down upon it.

Alfred loved the genuineness of it. "You and me both. My bastard didn't break my nose, but he was close." His smile broadened when Australia chuckled, but it slipped away as soon as his back was turned.

He was relieved when Australia didn't wait for him to read it, simply leaving him to the business and racing Gunner up the hill. Alfred waited until the pair were out of sight before cracking that insufferable seal and whipping open the folds of an archaic envelope. Paper shortages must have grown worse in Britain if he was resorting to methods from the 1760s.

There were blots at the top of the letter, underneath a date two weeks ago, as if Arthur had written his name before deciding he didn't want to be so personal and launched straight in:

 _Assuming that your president has previously informed you as to the circumstances of your brother's condition when he was initially returned to me in the last week of August, I should think you would want to know how Matthew has progressed these past months._

 _He awoke in the first days of October after over a month's rest, and has spent these conscious weeks under mine and France's care and protection. For your record, and should it be of absolute import that you have a sturdy answer: No, I have not boiled Matthew in a stew or in one of my mince pies, as I'm certain you would have so bafflingly phrased it. Your brother is alive and healing quite smoothly. _

_In regards to his duties, Matthew has thus far resumed the menial tasks—deskwork and such—but I predict he will be rejoining my forces some-time within the foreseeable future; however, not within the remainder of this year. His physical injuries have all healed without issue, but the cerebral damage he sustained during the Dieppe debacle requires more time, so be patient with him, will you? If he hasn't yet contacted you, you needn't worry. As I've written, he is healing well, and he will reassure you of that in his own time._

 _In writing this I realize that you must believe I am not the most veritable option to over-see his care. Trust France, then, if you must. He hasn't left the country since New Years', and I am quite aware that you are aware of how much your cozy camaraderie irritates me, so why not? It's_

 _If this was something I couldn't handle, I wouldn't, simple as that._

 _Matthew, however, would like to hear from you. Do us both the favor of addressing your dignified response to him and not to me. It would hardly be appropriate, and I haven't the time to play the messenger, nor do you—that is, if you are handling your responsibilities in as timely and considerate a manner as President Roosevelt sings your praises for._

 _Arthur Kirkland, Lord Britain_

Alfred blew out his cheeks, and with it the rudiments of his irritation at Arthur's incisive language. Nearly each letter could have bitten if it had teeth, and Alfred fully intended to decipher everything he wasn't saying later, but the most astonishing and pertinent piece of information came first.

"He was shot in the _head?_ Oh, Matt _…_ damn." No wonder he hadn't heard from him in months. It hadn't been possible.

And what did Arthur mean by _boil him in a stew?_ When had Alfred ever suggested that he was a witch? Or a—oh, what were they called, from _Macbeth_ —

"Matt? You mean Canada?"

Alfred nearly fell off the dock, he was so startled by his return. The water rushed all-too-quickly to embrace him before a hand grabbed his arm and set him upright. "Sorry," said Australia bracingly, stepping back. "Didn't mean to startle you."

Alfred waved him off, leaning forward on his knees. He was shaking—why was he shaking? He couldn't be showing weakness this early on. Did Australia notice that his breath came faster than normal? "I didn't even hear you come on the dock— _both_ times." He looked up and smiled, but he knew it looked strained.

Australia knew it, too. His brow creased when he grinned, and he shoved his hands in his shorts' pockets. He hadn't been in the military long, then. "Yeah, land likes me a bit too much at times—especially in a place raided as often as Darwin is." He glanced quickly around the harbor, and his expression made it clear that Alfred shouldn't ask. Not today, anyway. "I can't promise it won't happen again, but I'll try and give you a sign." His eyes twinkled when they dawned again on Alfred, offering some of the sunny cheer he gave Gunner despite their wariness. "You looked deep in thought. Everything all right?"

Alfred chuckled. "When is it ever?" He straightened and ran a hand through his hair, registering only briefly that he'd forgotten to oil it when he changed. Well, if he ended up seeing MacArthur tonight, he was just going to have to take the reality: fresh off a plane, exhausted, and in haphazard uniform. "It's not every day you find out your brother was shot in the head, but I'll be all right." He looked at the crumbled paper in his hand, the black and white and _perfect_ penmanship. It made him want to tear it merely for the satisfaction of snubbing Arthur for once. "This is the first I've heard about him in months."

"Sorry to hear that. I like Canada—he's got a good heart," said Australia, honestly. It lit his eyes as they lifted with Alfred's, and they both knew that overreacting to these types of situations was pointless. It often did more harm than good, but his empathy held the kind of earthy propriety that Alfred didn't know he was missing, and he was so grateful not to feel alone that—on faith of complicity—he handed Australia Arthur's letter.

His expressions were honest; Alfred noticed that as he read. He couldn't mask them, and perhaps he didn't try to, setting him apart from many of the other representations he knew. This one grew only slightly more bewildered the longer he started at the paper, and concentrated, as if English didn't quite make sense on paper yet. Alfred found that telling. He would have assumed Arthur had taught him—his reaction to the colonial raids last winter made him think so—but now he wondered whether he had bothered to. It would have been after his independence. How much did he care after that? It sounded selfish, but was that why he sounded defensive in the letter? Was he trying to make up for lost time with Matthieu? Alfred had never understood exactly why his brother had to leave, why he didn't come home from Quebec at their father's side. Neither told him: Arthur refused, and when he asked Matthieu the next time he saw him in 1778, the subject made him so uncomfortable that he hadn't tried to ask again.

"You don't get on with the big man, do you?" said Australia wryly when he finished, returning it with a look that apologized for intruding on something so personal.

Alfred simply snorted, folding it and sticking it with Roosevelt's in the waist line of his trousers. "That's an understatement, but it's something like that." Dropping the fold of his A-2, he stuck out his hand. "I'm Alfred Jones, by the way. I figure we should use normal names so we don't confuse the less informed ranks later on."

"Ah, right you are—Jack Kirkland." His grin held the air of coming easily, more true than any Alfred had yet seen, and his hand was warm as it slipped into his. He felt calluses rub along his glove, a sensation that lingered after they parted and Jack cleared his throat. "Down to business, then. What are you doing here in Darwin? If you're looking for the High Command, he's in Brisbane."

Alfred didn't miss the nuances in how he spoke of MacArthur: refraining from emotion, but not practiced enough to mask completely. It confirmed Roosevelt's assertion that they were at odds. Not that he would have expected any different, knowing his general.

Sighing, he peeled off his glasses and cleaned the lenses. "That's good to know. I didn't know where he was. I'm only following orders from Eagle One."

Jack frowned. "He didn't tell you himself? Aren't you coming from Wa—your capital?"

Alfred shook his head, stalling to debate how much to reveal. He decided he was too tired to care if the truth alarmed him. "I came from training on an air base in California. It's been ten months since I've been in office—I _have_ been getting updates on the fronts," he added quickly, when Jack's brow shot up. Apparently he did care. "But I will need you and High Command to fill me in on the details—as soon as possible, please, if I'm going to be any help here." He flashed one of his most reassuring grins, hoping he hadn't sunk Jack's hopes.

"Right," said Jack slowly, scanning his face. "Well, we've been expecting you for a few days now, so come on. I can't tell you anything out here, but I'll take you to him."

Their boots thumped on the dock, and then their shuffles through the burnt grasses on the hill shook stinging fire into Alfred's nose, circling around the oil tanks. Jack passed by them without a second glance, but Alfred had to bite back the urge to go against his wishes and ask what had happened that day. What happened now, how often the town was still attacked.

He didn't. Soon, perhaps, but not today.

In retrospect, Alfred probably shouldn't have paused so long to talk with Jack, saving the introductions for when he had the time and wasn't willing to fall asleep on his feet—finding MacArthur and discussing this operation he was so adamant about were more important— _tick, tick_ , who knew how many men per second—but he didn't regret the respite. If he could set off on a good foot with Jack, unaffected by MacArthur's egoism, it might mean the difference later.

"Now, miraculously, General MacArthur's awake," he began lowly when they reached the town limits. He touched Alfred's sleeve lightly, as if he felt the need to direct his attention. "And he'll want to see you immediately or I'll be a getting a mouthful in the morning."

Alfred grimaced. "That bad, huh?"

Jack hummed, flashing an unapologetic look. "It's been worse."

At some point while they spoke, they jumped, but Alfred only realized it when he breathed in and didn't smell oil. Looking around, he noted that the Brisbane base was smaller than Darwin, more of a transitory naval port for the allies than anything, but it bore blessed few signs of being attacked. Alfred's shoulders sank, relieved, but it alarmed him that he hadn't felt the transition. "Er, Jack, how did—?"

"You look pretty damn beat, so I helped you out a bit," he filled in, with a grin. "Hope you don't mind, sir."

The touch on his sleeve made sense now, and it was a pleasant thought to wonder at how well Jack and Matthieu must get along at Commonwealth meetings. "Call me Alfred. Sir makes me feel old, and I don't think titles are necessary outside of the war room."

Jack thought about it a moment, then nodded curtly, a slow warmth growing on his cheeks. "Alfred it is. This way."

He had to suppress a smile at the way Jack seemed to swell with the job of leading him into the blacked-out field office—at least, until they reached a heavy wooden door in a narrow, whitewashed corridor, and he knocked. Then he watched the tension stretch with too much familiarity across his shoulders as the door creaked open. Alfred hadn't heard voices quiet behind it, but that was the point.

The weary, bespectacled eye peering through the crack found Alfred first, furrowing before settling on Jack. "What do you need, Lieutenant Colonel? You know I don't have any authority to let—"

"I have Eagle Two, Mackenzie."

The eye went perfectly round and assessed Alfred with new awe. Then the door swung open and a lanky civvy in wrinkled shirtsleeves ushered the pair into an otherwise empty secretary's office, locking the door quickly behind them. "We've been waiting _days_ for you, sir," the young secretary said in a rough whisper, turning wide eyes on Alfred. "We were beginning to wonder if you were going to show up."

The attentive appraisal wasn't lost on Alfred. "Sorry about that. I only found out I had to be here less than twenty-four hours ago, but I'm here now, so show me where I need to go, and I'll work the magic." He slapped on a grin, but it felt like a grimace. _Work the magic?_

The secretary simply smiled indulgently. "Of course. Lieutenant Colonel, if you'll simply wait here while I—"

"Wait, you're not coming?" Alfred interrupted, turning to Jack.

He shook his head, and Alfred swore he saw the muscles twitch in his arms that meant his hands curled tighter behind his back. "I—don't have clearance. Field rank." He glanced at Mackenzie as though asking for a back-up.

So Alfred directed his demand to him. "He should be in this meeting." He thought back to Roosevelt's letter, Jack's inability to maintain a neutral tone when discussing MacArthur, and wondered what his counterpart here wasn't saying. Had MacArthur banned him from high-level talks because of their disagreements? Unfortunately, given the right evidence, he was within his jurisdiction to remove him, but it was an abuse of power if he did so simply because Jack was Australian and had a different opinion. Personally, Alfred found it difficult to believe that Jack would intentionally jeopardize an operation. He didn't know that for certain, but he trusted his intuition, and nothing thus far had indicated that Jack meant ill for the Allied cause.

Mackenzie bit his lip, sharing a similar imploring look with Jack. "He's a Lieutenant Colonel, sir, and General MacArthur has been clear that—"

"He's the representation of this _country_ ," Alfred countered. "And so what if MacArthur doesn't want him there—he's not Australian. Colonel Kirkland needs to be in this meeting."

"Best not to push it, General _Jones,_ " Jack muttered, with a hard look in Alfred's direction. It bothered him that it looked so natural on his face, that the lines of years of frustration had already carved themselves into his forehead and in the indignant ridges of his posture. Suddenly the bandage across his nose didn't seem so childlike anymore. He would definitely be hearing about that slip later. "I'll be here to take you to the barracks where you'll be sleeping afterwards… Sir."

Alfred couldn't decide whose head to smack—his own, Jack's, or Mackenzie's in place of an absent MacArthur's—but he let the subject drop. For now. He'd already known that Jack's field rank would work against him, and he needed MacArthur's faith before he started fighting him, but he didn't miss the disappointed look on Jack's face or the grateful one on the secretary's as the latter swept Alfred past the empty desk and through hallways barricaded by doors.

Eventually, they paused before another heavy door—this one of iron—in what felt like the deepest recesses of the field office. Mackenzie rapped on it without pretense. When it was met with silence long enough that anyone else would have walked away, he rattled off another pattern of knocks, and Alfred heard the cogs turn on the other side.

"This is where I leave you, sir," Mackenzie humbly announced.

Alfred thanked him and walked through onto a bare-boards stairwell. As guards closed the door behind him, he made sure his steps were loud enough to be heard by the hushed noises in the basement ahead. He didn't want to spring his presence on a group of war-weary radar operators and code-talkers, least of all MacArthur.

Whom he saw immediately when he reached the door to the war room. He looked up idly from the illuminated operation table when Alfred knocked on the frame. One corner of his mouth turned down around a smoking pipe. "Who are you?"

Alfred's duffel thudded onto the hardwood by the door. "General Alfred F. Jones, sir. President Roosevelt sent word prior, but I presume that you're aware—"

"I'm aware of who you are, otherwise I wouldn't believe a word you're saying." For the briefest second after he introduced himself, MacArthur had looked flabbergasted, but that was before he dropped his head and sighed as if in some internal pain—disappointment, Alfred expected. "With those fresh looks, you better be as good as he says you are, General America."

Alfred smirked and started around the table. "So the expectation would seem. It's an honor to finally meet you, sir. I've heard good things."

MacArthur eyed his proffered hand and narrowed them. "We've met. Army Chief of Staff in the thirties, remember, or were you too distracted by the secretaries to do your job?"

Well, shit. So much for appearing like a new face. Alfred reacted quickly, turning up the charm. "More by the erudite efforts of democracy, but I remember. You were one of the loudest in the room."

MacArthur scoffed, biting the pipe as acrid smoke wafted from his lips. "Save the ass-kissing for someone who gives a damn, will you? That's not why you're here." He straightened and faced Alfred with an expression as sour as his breath, hands stationed on his hips. "I always thought it was strange for him to have such a young face on his staff. I thought maybe you were one of his own kids, learning the ropes, but he seems to think that your input will be valuable, so tell us what you've got and I'll consider it."

Alfred struggled to keep his confident and alert mask in place as the Southwest Pacific Area commander blinked impatiently at him. He was right about the stronger arrogance, but he hadn't counted on his own youthful appearance working against him. He definitely couldn't say that he'd come green from a California air base and knew little about this operation he was helping to plan. If he didn't project a front of status and experience that would convince him, MacArthur could use that ignorance as a weapon to sway him against the Naval Staff's method of preference, and he was intelligent enough to conduct it consciously.

Fortunately, it wasn't the solitary game that MacArthur thought it was. Reluctant though he was to play with men's lives, Alfred refused to let anyone be careless with them. "You're going to have to catch me up first. Up-to-date information's what I need."

MacArthur didn't move immediately to fulfill the request, instead eyeing him—testing him, waiting to see what broke under the heat of his magnifying glass.

He had no idea how many times Arthur had used that ploy on him as a child. Alfred simply listed his head and raised eyebrows.

And without turning away, MacArthur barked, "Get me the latest reports on Rabaul, the Bismarks and the New Guinea Mandate for the general—and be quick about it."

A scramble erupted at the desks in the edges of the room to retrieve them; amid this soft, late-night ruckus, MacArthur pulled out his pipe, tilted his head towards Alfred conspiratorially and said, "Son, what do you know about Operation Cartwheel?"

Alfred cringed internally at the instinctive title. Once, Washington had insisted upon it, too. He felt Roosevelt and Arthur's letters smoothed against his hip and realized he wouldn't be making any progress if MacArthur said it again and he still had those reminders of a past that wouldn't let go within contact distance.

"You have a lighter I can borrow first?"

* * *

"If you need nothing more, I will be leaving now."

Arthur forced his eyes up from the new report on Madagascar's surrender. Sizwe was already on his feet, waiting patiently across the heavy desk for Arthur to dismiss him—at least, that's what the mask on his face said. His eyes were carefully cultivated blank.

Wary of sounding as haughty and dismissive as he had in the past, Arthur set down the file and gave him his full attention. "Of course, Cape, you've been quite helpful. Thank you."

Sizwe bowed his head and moved silently towards the door, albeit stiffly, as if his summer uniform didn't fit quite right.

It didn't. The fabric strained across his arms and torso. Arthur frowned. How had he been supplied with the wrong size? He scratched a note to find him a better fit, then cursed himself for not even thinking to ask if the province needed anything, but he didn't call him back. That would only make him tense again, and quite frankly he'd grown tired of seeing that in his colonies.

Perhaps he really had alarmed them at the Commonwealth meeting last June, tossing around threats as he had, forgetting operation names. When was the next one again?

Arthur heard Matthieu and Français exchange greetings and farewells with Sizwe at the door to his study as he searched through the bottoms of stacks for his schedule book. When the door shut, he spared himself a moment to remove his suit jacket, grateful for the excuse of—relatively—personal company to do so, and swiped the back of his hand across his forehead.

"France, I think you've added too much wood to the fire—again," he complained as the two took seats across from him. Where was that damn schedule?

"Actually, that would be me." Matthieu grinned sheepishly, cutting off Français before he could get a defensive word in and spoil the calm afternoon. "Sorry. Your house always feels cold."

Arthur paused in digging through the drawers. "Are you certain that's not because of your injury?"

Matthieu shrugged, disregarding the seriousness with which Arthur asked. "Probably—but that doesn't mean anything bad, Français, so don't start," he added quickly and firmly when Français made once more to protest. "It's just my body trying to find equilibrium."

"And you are not feeling dizzy? Is it not healing properly?" Français reached over to sweep Matthieu's hair away from his temple and check, but he smacked his hand away, looking thoroughly exasperated. Well, that was what happened when one had Français for a father figure. To everyone else he would appear the cavalier and self-absorbed aristocrat, but to his colonies he could be a mawkish protector. Arthur could remember seeing that side directed at him, too, a long, _long_ time ago.

As Français launched into all the reasons why Matthieu should not be exerting himself with chores, Arthur met dismayed eyes with his dominion briefly and resumed his search. Their row in the motorcar two weeks ago had broken an invisible barrier between them, and most facets of their relationship had resumed, but something had changed. Arthur began letting him join his conferences with Churchill last week, and where before the Prime Minister had regarded his opinions as those of a British possession and therefore required to submit on some level, now he viewed Matthieu in a light of true value. He asked for his opinions. It was as if his sacrifice in Dieppe had awarded him a Cross greater than honor. Perhaps it had something to do with the true nature he had glimpsed that night, but sometime over the fortnight, Matthieu had become a valuable member of the conglomerate. Arthur saw it, he knew Matthieu felt it, but he wasn't certain how that made the boy feel. He was too cautious to embrace his newfound respect wholeheartedly, that much he knew.

Finding his schedule precisely where he left it in the top right drawer—blast all, overtaxed didn't begin to describe how he felt these days—Arthur flipped to the next year and searched through the weeks and months, ignoring the others' argument—something else that had yet to restore to its proper state. Matthieu's injury, Arthur discovered, had affected his emotional dispositions, lending reason for his outbursts in the motorcar and why there were times when he acted close enough to Alfred that Arthur wondered if he was doing it on purpose. They hadn't spoken much of his brother's place in the argument, and Arthur had no intention to. That was the last thing on his mind.

Their troops' landing in Africa was a victory—so far, but that was what worried him. In the past such successes had been temporary, and while the reports flowing in detailed a hastily thorough Axis retreat from the eastern end straight into western Anglo-American arms, he was leery of the aftermath. Kesselring, in lieu of Vichy French capitulation in Algeria, had already sent an army into Tunisia to repel them, and they were advancing westward by the minute—a possibility which only made Français more protective of his current focus, treating Matthieu vicariously like his Algerian counterpart.

Something awful was sure to follow. Churchill knew it as well as he did, but their people didn't. They were overwhelmed with joy that, _finally_ , after what seemed an endless string of defeats and disasters, there was victory. Sweet, succulent victory, as unexpected and savory as frosted cake in this time of constraining rations. To them, total victory—a whole cake!—surely must be close at hand.

The sentiments were nauseating. And blessedly easy to shut out.

In the midst of reviewing his pre-made plans for 1943, Arthur wrote another note to advise Churchill on another broadcast. And soon, before Britons got it in their heads that it was acceptable to slack in the war effort.

Despite the chaotic string of his thought process, Arthur didn't miss when the conversation lulled and the Ironclad file slipped off his desk, clipping a stack of House bills along the way. He simply deadpanned, "Kindly return my report, France."

The excuse—in French, of course: "I am only lessening your work by reviewing this for you."

Arthur reached across the desk and snatched it from his hands, earning a scrunched nose. "If you want to help, keep that ruddy general of yours from blabbing whenever he hears about an operation—or better yet, send him back to Jerry. That would be a load off."

Français harrumphed, somehow managing to make lounging in a wooden-back chair look both immensely comfortable and terribly not so. With that pinched expression, Arthur was going to hit him if he put his feet on the desktop. " _Général_ de Gaulle wouldn't complain so much—"

"Of course he would—"

"If your pug-faced _Premier Ministre_ Churchill let him into one once in a while," he finished, pressing on fervently in his own language as if he hadn't heard Arthur. He likely hadn't—or hadn't cared. " _I_ was not aware that last May a British army went blundering into Madagascar—which is _my_ colony, that I know you have not forgotten—"

"Was it yours? Shame I forgot—"

"Meaning, _mon ami,_ "— _Honestly?_ Arthur thought—"it was a landscape that _I_ could have helped your war cabinet chart had any of them bothered to ask—"

"As if we would've needed to be reminded—"

" _Angleterre_ , please close your mouth and listen for once. I am trying to remind you—"

" _Close my mouth?_ It's stitched shut compared to that insufferable general's!"

"My people will not be ignored."

"No, clearly not, because they insist upon infuriating my staff—"

Français straightened, hands clenching on his lap. "They do not! My people are working tirelessly to liberate my lands _and_ Europe while you sit at this tacky desk all day, chatting and drinking and being _conneries_ , as you _anglais_ always are. It is true, all that you English have ever cared about is your own tiny little island—"

"The seat of an empire, remember, frog? Or did it fall down a trench while you were in with a blonde?"

"He used to be _redoubtable,_ but you see what he has come to? You see, Matthieu? Dignified, petty little sheep, each of you." Français huffed and crossed his arms, fixing Arthur with the imperial stare that his traditional enemy personally felt he was far too accustomed to using even in the direst of circumstances; not even Waterloo and the remains of his royalty dying had put an end to it. "You should have told the two of us, at least. It is unacceptable that I was not aware of an operation in Madagascar until after it happened—"

"Why do you think that is?" Arthur shot back, determined to have his say. It wasn't at all because Français had gotten under his skin—hardly that. "De Gaulle spoilt the secrecy of the mission to Dakar and it was an utter disaster. He sent a French fleet to _invade and occupy_ Saint-Pierre and Miquelon last Christmas when they should have been in _my_ service escorting convoys! Those islands were about as much of a threat as my boot is to Matthew's face. Yours, on the other hand, I would be more than happy to shove up—"

"He's right. Mackenzie King and Roosevelt weren't super happy about that," Matthieu inserted, but Français waved it off.

" _Oui, mais_ is there ever any guarantee that, should _Monsieur_ de Gaulle be given a command, he will receive credit for it? Your _Premier Ministre_ is quite content to take his ideas on mechanized warfare and the invasion of Madagascar and claim they are his own."

Arthur fought the urge to growl his response. "Madagascar became an imminent threat for Japanese invasion. He had to do something—"

"It simply isn't enough to ban him from traveling, you must rob him of his efforts as well. And what about Mers-el-Kebir? Britain had no right to bombard my navy!"

Swearing under his breath, Arthur set down the fountain pen and rubbed his sore temples. That particular mission had transpired over two years ago now, but he wasn't surprised that Français still resented the Royal Navy's attempt to prevent French warships from falling into Nazi hands. In fairness, and regardless of his exterior attitudes toward it, Arthur wasn't proud to admit that his guns had killed over a thousand Frenchmen that day. "The Admiral was given an ultimatum, and he chose not to heed it—"

Français scoffed so loudly that the echo pushed against the rafters. He shook his head, sending a pungent wave of cologne to sting Arthur's nose. "You and your navy think you rule the seas. It almost makes me grateful that Germany is giving you a challenge. Perhaps your self-assurances in the English ability to steal and murder is one good thing to come out of your pathetic leadership in this war, _Angleterre_. Churchill believes _Général_ de Gaulle's ideas are resourceful enough to apply them to the effort." The triumph was clear in his tone and smirk as he finished, although it dulled under the righteous anger in the rest of his face. "Do you know what I overheard him referring _mon général_ to when he was here breathlessly awaiting news on your invasion of my African colonies?"

Arthur's hand clenched around the pen, and he dropped his head to the file, intent on tuning him out and holding his insults within so he wouldn't shout something that Français could use against him later. "No, and I don't really—"

" _Jeanne d'Arc_." Her name—that which Arthur almost always referred to as "the Unmentionable"—spoken with equal levels of adoring memory and present malice. Beside Français, Arthur heard Matthieu's breath hitch. Good. Maybe now Arthur would receive some welcome assistance after the boy's so-called mentor tacked mercilessly on, "From what I have heard, the American President calls him that, too, and hardly in an affectionate way. I wonder whose _idea_ that was, hm?"

"It wasn't mine, I assure you." Arthur hissed when the pen snapped between his fisted fingers, shards breaking his skin and spilled ink spreading dangerously close to the stacks of files and reports. Matthieu leapt from his chair to help clean the mess, but Français seized his arm.

"That, more than anything I have told you here, is unacceptable," he finished, almost dangerously low. Arthur heard and felt the iciness in his expression but tried not to let his exasperation show as he plucked the jagged metal from his palm, joining black ink with red blood in a soon-to-be sticky mess that horribly resembled the Nazi emblem.

He gritted his teeth and yanked a spear-shaped piece from the joint of his thumb. "Doesn't he refer to himself as—"

"Whether or not he refers to himself that way is irrelevant," Français snapped, making no move to help. So much for his blustering about being allies. "That it is being used as a joke—and by _les Anglo-Saxons_ —is."

"Well, I'm not—laughing about it," Arthur grated, pulling out the last piece with a deflated gasp. The cuts were already healing—quickly, that was relieving—but he wrapped them in his handkerchief all the same, acutely aware that Français would use any perceived weakness he could grasp to his advantage.

It was this same knowledge of history that encouraged Arthur to speak with a neutral tone as he dug again through his desk. "Frankly, it fits rather well with the standard he's adopted for the Free French. Both 'Anglo-Saxon' leaders being astute historians themselves, I'm not surprised that they utilized its inspiration, however mocking its intent." Finding an old hawk-feather quill whose alignment was broken in the bottom drawer, Arthur set about resuming work with his left hand, ignoring the bait Français wanted him to take and even more his darkening expressions.

Something was wrong. It had been at least 120 years since he last heard Français sound so vengeful, and when their governments and monarchs started playing relatively nice with one another afterwards—not least from the efforts of Victoria—the diplomacy came with an unspoken boundary that they never, _ever_ speak of Joan of Arc, or her fate. Not between each other, that is. Their people were more than welcome and willing to—her canonization twenty-two years ago had almost certainly been a jab, shared victory be damned—but as the only surviving witnesses of her death, Français considered it inappropriate, and Arthur was simply grateful not to have to defend his honor for the five-hundredth time that he was not entirely to blame, that France's own king and clergy had condemned her to the flames his countrymen lit.

Français lashed out like a petulant child whenever his proud nationalism was afflicted—often, by the truth—but rarely ever in a stream like this, and never, in recent years, with so much intent. Ordinarily, Arthur would put it down to the split or German occupation in the north, but that felt unconcerned and dismissive. This was different. There was no laughter, no self-celebration of his insufferable riposting. No flair or clinquant appendices.

Arthur dared a glance upward and found harsh reprisals and splatters of pain in Français's blue gaze. He'd seen them before, but this time he couldn't make himself hold it. Swallowing, he focused on his schedule.

He wasn't afraid. He wouldn't lose if they fight. No, absolutely not.

"Good as it is to see you two back to your old ways instead of coddling, we did come in here to share something," Matthieu announced, with the hollow ring of lighthearted banter. When Arthur looked up, his gaze flicked between him and Français, shooting the same questions he had back to him.

Arthur's lips thinned. _I wish I had an answer._ "What is it?"

"Nothing serious," He missed a beat but recovered quickly, misinterpreting the anticipation in his tone. "Just a gram from Australia stating that Al made it safely to Brisbane." He waved a yellow card and handed it over. "You didn't tell me that you wrote him a letter."

Arthur flashed Matthieu a silencing glance and set the gram aside to be catalogued with a _snap_. A pity that it only strengthened his conviction and broadened his sly grin. "It was an update, nothing more. And you had no business reading my mail, twit."

Matthieu tried, and failed, not to smile. "Really? I thought it was public knowledge that I was unofficial Secretary of the Commonwealth, which means its my job to sort through your mail. Speaking of which—" He snatched the Madagascar file from under Arthur's quill. "I should read this, too."

Arthur made a half-hearted effort to retrieve it, but Matthieu jerked it out of reach. He sighed. "Matthew—"

"You have more important things to do than review a report on Madagascar's surrender, and I've finished all my work for the day. Don't worry about this." He sat back in the chair and stretched his legs, flipping open the cover. "If it makes you feel any better, I don't plan on giving it to Français. Personally, I don't see what harm a surrender report could do, but orders are orders."

No response. Arthur stopped writing. Waited.

"Français?" Matthieu's chair creaked.

There was so much waiting in a war.

" _Merde,_ Arthur!"

Both chairs tipped over before Arthur had the chance to see. He shot out of his and around the desk to nearly trip over Français on his knees, blood spilling from his lips—no, that was incorrect. They _were_ bleeding, but because he had bit them so hard, trying desperately not to cry out, not to show weakness. But when Arthur bent to his level, the blood on the rug came from under his trembling hand, from his abdomen—a spreading line seeping through the silk of his shirt from the broad scar of his many civil conflicts.

"That— _Autrichien fils de_ — _salope_!" Français bellowed in between gasps, startling Matthieu.

The fury disquieted Arthur, but he pushed past it, moving to wrap an arm around his shoulders. "Fetch the aide kit—immediately," he ordered Matthieu, who tripped over his feet in his haste to respond.

"No," Français gasped, shoving off Arthur's hands and grabbing the arm of the nearest overturned chair.

"You need medical—"

"I said _no,_ Matthieu!" With a good deal of hissing and cursing, and with only one useful hand, the other pressed bloodily to his drenched front, Français pushed to his feet. Matthieu, far too experienced with the effects of French squabbles on his proud mentor, forced himself to the side and waited to be called upon, sucking on his lip.

Arthur, however, knew no such boundaries. They had never been formalized. "France, Matthew's correct. You need medical attention immediately—" A bloody hand seized the collar of his shirt, jerking him up to the pair of frantic eyes staring coldly into his, and for once he did what Français told him to do. He shut up.

"The Germans are occupying the south of my country, much like you tried to once," he hissed. It took effort to concentrate on this reality, to stay in one place; Arthur saw the struggle in the white knuckles of his shaking hands and the glaze crossing his stare. "If I do not go, you will be in part responsible for the deaths of more of my countrymen than I can save. This is already your fault. Would you like to bear another on your abundant record?"

Arthur swallowed. Retorts shot instinctively to his tongue, but he was too aware of the time they were wasting by standing here, and he knew that Français was not in the state of mind to be merciful. He didn't like to think what he could do with the intelligence he had if he fought him further, but he had plenty of ideas as to what it would result in.

"No," he said finally. Weakly. He cringed.

But Français let him go. Arthur didn't realize that he'd given his weight over to him, and he dropped—breathless—back to his knees, but his enemy didn't stay to point it out, letting him know exactly how precious and desperate his time was. He swept past Matthieu without a backward glance, his life dripping on the floorboards as he went. In spite of what must have been overwhelming pain, he managed to stay upright and moving, and a minute later, Arthur heard the front door slam.

Ten more seconds, and his presence left the country.

Arthur sank forward, resting his head against the chair arm as the residues of Français's anger trickled from his body. He hadn't seen him act like that—cold, focused, inclined to kill rather than insult or deceive—in centuries. Not since his own people had burned and slaughtered paths through the northern half of France.

 _Much like you tried to once._

Arthur felt the knees of his trousers growing damp from Français's congealing blood, but for once, he wasn't satisfied by its spill. It didn't feel like justified repayment. It made him feel sick.

One hundred and twenty-odd end years of terror, that had been—perhaps would be, if Hitler had his way. All for a leader's lust for power.

And he had _so_ much blood on his hands.

"Vichy is being occupied?" Matthieu's voice shook, as quiet as a frightened child's, and as unable to understand, though Arthur knew his disbelief had nothing to do with the puppet state. This was likely one of the first or few times he had seen the formidable strength Français was truly capable of.

Arthur creaked his eyelids open, saw the darkening stain on his rug and squeezed them tight. He swallowed, fortifying his voice so it wouldn't echo Matthieu's. It was ever-important that he appear the stronger for his colonies. "So it would seem. I'm sure we'll be hearing about it shortly."

A beat of silence, and then he heard the clip of Matthieu's steps leaving the study, presumably to fetch a cloth to clean the blood. Arthur didn't stop him, preferring the loneliness as he let out a shuddering breath and slid one hand protectively around his throat. His pulse beat frantically despite the chill of his skin where Français's fingers had knocked.

They had been children then, prone to listen to emotional responses and act on impulses. Français wouldn't have tried to slaughter him now; he knew it was impossible. Arthur _hoped_ it was impossible. This wasn't a lonely two-front stand. This wasn't his last breath.

Yet, he still remembered with the perfect clarity of age overpowered by trauma the _misericorde_ of one of his killed knifemen slicing like butter through his jerkin, his bone armor, his beating heart—held it in place by the inhuman strength of a man desperate to save his people, who would die if he let them go. Every strangled breath had felt like Arthur's last.

Except, barely audible underneath the closing fingers of mortality, the whisper of lips trembling with rage against his ear made sure he lived long enough to hear: _The fires of her pyre cannot compare to the pain her screams have given me. You will know how they burn before this day is over._

Arthur choked.

Suddenly, he began to understand why Ludwig hadn't stopped Hitler when he had the chance. Why he was so adamant about ending him now. He should've seen it before. It wasn't about power.

It never was.

He thought of that storming night just over two months ago, of the unconscious boy with the bloodied head, seeming so small in his sopping uniform. It had taken a moment to register the arms that held him; the uniform had blended into the night.

 _Germany, do you know what you've done?_

He'd been willing to believe so before, but today Arthur doubted it, and any other answer Ludwig would have offered didn't matter now. Français had leapt upon Matthieu with the fervent relief and sighing sobs of a parent, Arthur had invited Ludwig inside to share what he was willing to, and a pending occupation had not been one of the pieces. There was nothing he could do for what had already occurred.

The aftermath had come.

* * *

Footnotes:

America and Australia  
 **1\. Darwin:** Perhaps not so ironically, many of the pilots, their planes, aircraft carriers, and even the Commander of the Pearl Harbor mission, Mitsuo Fuchida, were present in the raid on Darwin ten weeks after the attack on O'ahu. The blackened planks Alfred sits on is in reference to the _MV Neptuna,_ which exploded while docked in the main wharf because of its TNT and ammunitions stock. The American loss of life he feels and the mast outside the bay refer to the sunken _USS Peary,_ which suffered the highest losses of the day with 88 dead. 19 February 1942 was the worst of many attacks occurring over the next year and a half, but one in June 1942 destroyed seven of the eleven above ground oil tanks on Stokes Hill, located near the water, by setting them on fire.

 **2\. Gunner the dog** was real. I won't say too much, because you'll see more of him, but he was a useful, preempting tool on the Darwin RAAF base after the 19 February raid.

3\. Ordinarily, Australian uniforms were khaki, but the New Guinea campaign saw the introduction of jungle green uniforms in order to blend in better with their environment.

 **4\. Jack's Rank:** I imagine Jack may have been offered a promotion to Colonel or even Brigadier, but it requires so much desk work that I think he would have hated it and chose to stay in his position. Brigadiers in the Australian Army are both a junior general grade (one star) and the highest field rank, commanding at Brigade level. Lieutenant Colonels, by comparison, often command battalions, and are charged with the overall effectiveness, military capability and discipline of their units, although they can "hold staff officer appointments on headquarters at the Brigade level or higher" (Australian Army).

By the way, addressing other officers with your hands in your pockets wasn't considered good form, at least in the US military. I'm not certain about Australia, but it seems likely that it would be similar policy; regardless, the intent of Jack doing it was to portray the extent of his uncertainty between ease and discomfort.

5\. Although James Cook initially landed in New South Wales in 1770, the length of years in Jack's joke when he hands Alfred the letter refers to the time in which Australia has been a British _penal_ colony, established on 26 January 1788—modern Australia Day.

6\. Jack's attitudes towards MacArthur in this chapter is something of a reflection of how American leaders regarded the Australians, and MacArthur in particular, who wanted to ascertain that they did not detract from American glory. By contrast, the Australians initially viewed the Americans as something of a rescuer from the strains of British dominance. The Prime Minister at the time, John Curtin, ceded all military authority to MacArthur.

7\. MacArthur's corncob pipes were specially designed for MacArthur by the Missouri Meerschaum Company, but they were difficult to smoke, so the company provided him other pipes to use for pleasure, and the corncob became a facet of his public personality.

France and England  
 **1\. French translations (that are not self-explanatory, lots of cursing ahead)** :  
 _Conneries:_ bullshits  
 _Anglais:_ English  
 _Redoubtable:_ formidable  
 _Oui, mais:_ Yes, but…  
 _Merde:_ Shit  
 _Autrichien fils de salope:_ Austrian son of a bitch  
 _Misericorde:_ "mercy-giver", a thin blade used by English knifemen, slid between visor slits or armor plates of injured knights after a battle to make death certain.

I think I've said this before, but I have little knowledge of French structuring and grammar other than what I've been picking up from French travel websites and Stephen Clarke's book, so if there are any mistakes here, please let me know.

 **2\. Charles de Gaulle** : Despite being Commander of the Free French—actually, _because_ he was—Churchill and Roosevelt didn't trust the general; they considered him more a nuisance than anything (the reasons why are discussed below), and they did nickname him Joan of Arc behind his back, whom, ironically, de Gaulle compared himself to. Français, however, is not wrong when he says that Churchill claimed as his own de Gaulle's early concepts of mechanized warfare; the Nazis did, too, and we know how that turned out. As for Madagascar, the idea of occupation was simply an available plan suggested by de Gaulle, and Churchill used it when it became necessary. More on that below.

 **3\. Mers-el-Kebir** , on 3 July 1940, was a port near Oran in Algeria that housed the main French war fleet. Deciding that the uncertainty of their allegiances wasn't worth gambling on, the British sent warships with a request for the fleet's commander to join them and sail to Allied or neutral ports with reduced crews _or_ move out. When 6 PM came and they received no response from Admiral Gensoul, British guns let loose. After nine minutes of single-ended fire, two French battleships were disabled, another exploded, and 1,250 French sailors were dead. While Roosevelt applauded this course of action, de Gaulle was understandably furious, but he forced himself to acknowledge that Marshal Pétain, who governed Vichy France, likely would have let Hitler have the fleet.

 **4\. Dakar:** In September 1940, fearing that it would become a Nazi submarine base due to its pro-Vichy leadership, the British decided to take over Dakar in west Africa. De Gaulle was in favor of this plan and had intentions of personally going in and convincing the Vichy French, but when he went to a tailor to get fitted for a climate-appropriate outfit, he told the shop assistant where he was going. Other French troops did the same. Despite its exposure, de Gaulle convinced the British to go ahead with the mission. Vichy French fought the Free French forces off and puttering spats broke out with the British, inspiring the regime to produce stereotypical anti-British propaganda.

 **5\. Saint-Pierre and Miquelon:** These two islands on the eastern Canadian coastline were owned by the French in December 1941 (and still are today). Thus, when France fell, and thanks to the armistice, they went to the Vichy, meaning that de Gaulle believed they needed to be liberated—without telling the British or Americans. On 23 December he sent a small fleet commanded by one of his faithful admirals to take over the islands, facing hardly any resistance. When Admiral Muselier cabled Churchill (who's in Washington), however, Roosevelt declared the islands under joint British, Canadian, and American rule for the duration of the war (the Monroe Doctrine makes this a legitimate claim), until de Gaulle threatened to open fire on Allied troops who tried to enter the islands, and he backed down. Nonetheless, de Gaulle was banned from traveling outside London after this fiasco.

 **6\. Madagascar:** The invasion of Madagascar ended on 5 November 1942, precisely six months after the attack began. When Arthur calls it "an imminent threat", he's referring to a message intercepted in March 1942 from the Japanese ambassador in Berlin detailing pressure from the Germans to occupy the island and disrupt British supply routes. Churchill had previously stated that the island was one he would like to occupy but that it wasn't a priority. This message increased the urgency.

 **7\. "The standard he's adopted for the Free French"** refers to the red Cross of Lorraine on the modern tri-color French flag. Lorraine was Joan of Arc's home region.

 **8\. Joan of Arc:** Burgundians allied with the English captured her in battle in 1430. From there, she was ransomed to the English and tried in a rigged clerical court by the _French_ Bishop of Beauvais, Pierre Cauchon, an English collaborator who did everything in his power to manipulate her into confessing to heresy, blasphemy, witchcraft, wearing men's clothes, etc. among seventy charges. In essence, Cauchon was desperate to make an example of her for future messengers, but when the ambiguity of her answers failed to convict her, he tricked her into changing from a woman's dress back into men's trousers after she signed a promise not to, thus condemning her as a "relapsed heretic". (To be fair, she was terrified her guards would sexually assault her, and Cauchon, aware of this, promised to send her to a safer prison if she changed into a dress and confessed her sins. He sent her straight back after she agreed to the deal.) That said, the English _are_ guilty of burning her. They set fire to her pyre on 30 May 1431, but they were not the ones to condemn her.

8\. The decision to occupy Vichy France on 10 November was most likely in retaliation for the Torch landings two days earlier. Algeria at the time was considered an extension of France, meaning its people were legally French citizens, and its official collapse to the Allies on 9 November probably prompted the response in order to protect the "rest" of the country from Allied invasion, especially since the Vichy High Commissioner was known to be an opportunist and changed his allegiances at the flip of a coin (which is the reason Algeria surrendered), a trait which cost him his life at the end of the year.

 _Chapter Sources:  
_ 1\. AAHII  
2\. "Bombing of Darwin" – Wikipedia  
3\. "The bombing of Darwin – Fact sheet 195" – National Archives of Australia  
4\. "Brigadier" – Wikipedia  
5\. "Commissioned Officer Ranks" – Australian Army website  
 _6\. A Concise History of Australia_ , by Stuart Macintyre  
 _7\. Franklin and Winston  
_ 8\. "French Swear Words: My 10 Favorites" – France Travel Guide  
9\. "Gunner (dog)" – Wikipedia  
10\. "Human names" - Hetalia Archives  
11\. "Lieutenant Colonel" – Wikipedia  
12\. "MacArthur, Douglas (1880 – 1964)" – David Horner, Australian Dictionary of Biography  
 _13\. WWII  
_ 14\. "10 Things You May Not Know About Douglas MacArthur" – Christopher Klein, History Channel  
 _15\. 1000 Years of Annoying the French,_ by Stephen Clarke  
16\. "1788: First Australian penal colony established" – This Day in History, History Channel  
17\. "1942: French Admiral Jean Darlan is assassinated" – This Day in History, History Channel

 _Quote Source: Franklin and Winston_


	14. The Greatest

**Note: This chapter is M rated, particularly in the last section, for violence and gore.  
**

* * *

 **The Greatest**

" _Where the greater malady is fixed,  
_ _The lesser is scarce felt. Thou 'dst shun a bear,  
_ _But if thy flight lay toward the roaring sea,  
_ _Thou 'dst meet the bear i' th' mouth."  
_ \- William Shakespeare, _King Lear_

 **13 NOVEMBER 1942**

He could imagine the rivalry forming between them, though in truth their relationship had hardly expanded beyond the dominant and the obedient. Yet, they knew enough about one another that he was certain his declared enemy would see when the tactics changed—certain that, somehow, a move he made would stain, and Honda Kiku would know: Alfred F. Jones was here.

There was an air of formidability about it, as if he were on the same grandiose scale as MacArthur. However, the question was not whether it was true—Midway saw to that—but whether Alfred wanted to confirm his suspicions. He couldn't sense Kiku anywhere near his location. No, there was so much death around that he would've had to dig through filth-laden limbs and pull apart fading life threads simply to find a _shred_ of Honda Kiku. Even then, the usefulness of this information would have been debatable; he had lost his chance to touch Australia's base. What was there to worry about?

 _Everything._

"Sir, another destroyer has been disabled in Ironbottom Sound. The crew are abandoning ship now and preparing to sink it."

MacArthur cursed and barked an order for the radio operator to reiterate, but his words were drowned by the rapid ticking in Alfred's head, accentuated by the clocks on the grey wall above his head, the unceasing clicks of Morsing keys. His head stayed bowed to the slim expanse of blue beside Guadalcanal—what a small yet hotly contested slip of water, set blithely in the larger frame of the Southwest Pacific Area spreading under his gloved fingers, gridded like a chessboard. He heard the name of the sinking warship shouted into the open and slid the little wooden knight off to the black edges, removing the tiny, 48-star flag. Laying it flat snapped a heartstring, and the humid, unforgiving airs that clung to his skin only made him feel heavier. He felt as if he was playing as some god—hell, he was close, wasn't he, playing the game with men's lives rather than pieces—but doing something with his hands was all he could do not to fall into the horrible reality happening on the water right that moment.

His gloves served the same purpose. Port Moresby was far too hot for them, but if his bare fingers so much as brushed the Slot, he was afraid it would overwhelm his sensitive state of mind and plunge him in. No eyes studied him directly, but he felt them all over. From azure waters where metallic _BOOM_ s shook the waves. From messy brown paths sheltered beneath leafy green canopies where black snipers shot the silence and sibilant sounds of machetes thrashing at the underbrush meant certain death if the wrong ally waited on the other side, rifle in hand.

The noises. _Tick._ The visions. _Tick._ They never changed, did they?

Tonight, they centered on Guadalcanal, some eight hundred miles across the Solomon Sea, where snickering naval artillery asphyxiated given orders and steel burst under sailors' fingers. Tomorrow, who knew where his focus would need to be, or even if war would wait until then.

 _Tick, tick._ The seconds that Alfred first heard in the Red Room of the White House ticked midnight and home in Papua and Guadalcanal—sacrificial rooks in this castigating game—bleeding as loud and scarlet as those walls.

They had known the convoy was coming. Alfred had expected it, Roosevelt had warned him, cryptanalysts confirmed it. Refusing it the freedom to bombard the battered airfield and land reinforcements should have been all that mattered, really, but it never felt that simple.

They were badly outnumbered. They had hardly any destroyers available to meet it, only one workable aircraft carrier—and where the _hell_ had the submarines gotten off to?

Alfred raked a hand over his sweating face, under his glasses and the bruised half-moons beneath his eyes. In the seventy-two hours that had followed his arrival, he had sacrificed sleep to study recent reports, familiarizing himself with the theater's current circumstances in the late nights and early dawns without MacArthur present to cast ignorance with his appearance and kick him out.

MacArthur, who clearly didn't trust his credentials, otherwise he would have met him at his GHQ _here_ instead of the one he had recently vacated in Brisbane. After their initial meeting, the story Jack whispered to him on the jump back to the Darwin barracks was that he wanted to ascertain Alfred was the "General America" Roosevelt had touted him to be before bringing him into the thick of the campaigns—an uncharacteristically cautious move from someone so loathed and so renowned for his bold strategy, one that would clash as easily with Alfred's as it did with Nimitz's. His choice meant anything Alfred did would be observed, analyzed, and catalogued, and although the effort of pretense these past days had drained his capacity for originality almost as much as his studying, Alfred had no choice.

Roosevelt, Jack, all of Australia, all of his and Alfred's divisions, were depending on him to do—and do well, without mistake—his time-proven job.

 _Tick, tick._

Some of the information Alfred found in the files he had already known, but Japan's movements on Guadalcanal over the past month were fresh to his deprived eyes. They weren't many, consisting mainly of ardent naval skirmishes, attempts to recapture the Americanized Henderson Field, the massacres that ensued, nightly convoys nicknamed the "Tokyo Express" exchanging reinforcements for the sick—facts that Roosevelt had alluded to but hadn't gone into detail about.

So much about these campaigns, however, depended upon what the enemy did. Fighting on one island reflected too willingly on the other; the actions of a commander refracted on the adversary's.

There was an air of desperation about it, as if Kiku bore the same ill pallor as his military. A reflection of theirs, perhaps, or his personal anxiety seeping into them. It made the Japanese predictable in some ways, eroded their initial desire for resources into a war of resolve, but in environments were nothing was set in stone or even fit for human habitation, movement was the best they could rely on.

Alfred needed to know how to take advantage of that. He had spent less than a day stationed in Papua before he understood imminently how quickly morale waned in this climate. War in this arena was cloaked indiscriminately in gritty mud and warm rains, heat-trapping kunai grasses and near-absolute malaria. American, Australian, and Japanese alike succumbed to the malaise, weak without quinine and adequate provisions, and unlike the developed societies stomping through whose feet held up heads that distinguished ethnicities and loyalties and clung to those divides like lifelines, nonpartisan nature cared not who suffered.

 _Tick, tick._

In spite of the nail-biting focus on Guadalcanal, Japan remained adamant about claiming Port Moresby, regardless of how unlikely that success was. The base's strategic placement as the only one on Papua capable of supporting Allied operations would for them serve as a central launch point for other operations, other places to raze into submission. Such was the goal, essentially—annex the island, expand the Empire. Oil and rubber were among the last forefronts of their minds now that their enemies were fighting back and, moreover, winning.

And yet, it appeared High Command didn't care how much life was lost, so long as the target was reached—from both sides.

Alfred could feel Jack's eyes among the pleading— _tick, tick_ —turned firmly in his direction from the north side of the island, where he was doing far more to help individual fighters than Alfred was right now— _tick, tick._

Another destroyer sinking. Hearing the name, Alfred shut his eyes for a silent moment, and went back to wracking his brain as he pulled a second knight off the board. Focus. _Focus, focus._

He hadn't forgotten—especially for higher-ups as himself—how much of a war was waiting, nor how disparaging these endless minutes could be as they stretched into hours and anxiety sank ever deeper into the currents of his blood, but it had never agreed with his restless spirit. In Washington, the war had felt distant enough, and his cultural apathy and pleasures so prevalent, that he could ignore it when he desired. In Tennessee, Texas, and California, conditioned to focus on altimeters and airspeed indicators and his navigational instincts, he could dull the ticking behind the engine roar.

On the field, his weakness for letting people in plagued him. By the time his Revolution rose off the ground, such closeness had been an agony he had known for decades, and Washington in a heat of need had exploited its immediacy more than once, foregoing communications no faster than a horse's speed for better results.

Now more than ever, however, that could not become him—not when MacArthur was irritable and easily provoked, and it appeared Jack was the same. He mentioned that same night that MacArthur had sacked the Papuan campaign commander in September because the Australians had been beaten back to within forty kilometers of the base Alfred stood inside, and though he had tried to sound indifferent when he laid out this story, even in mutual exhaustion Alfred could tell Jack was upset.

Frankly, Alfred felt he had stepped into a minefield ready to explode, timers be damned. Between Jack and MacArthur's unexplained feud; Lieutenant General Blamey, the latter's replacement as commander of Australian ground forces, a less-than-pleasant man at best who quite clearly took issue with being disregarded; the difficulty of his two-pronged mission and the campaigns, Alfred wanted to roll up his sleeves and bang all their heads together until a sense of _esprit de corps_ —or at least some common sense—took hold and they could _get this done._ Japan's mightily fragile Empire was running on limited time and means. They knew how they operated, and, after all, if Kiku's leaders didn't care for their losses, how could they retain contested islands like these if there was no able man remaining to subdue them? The cracks had shown, and America was beating his fists on the face, impatient for the moment when the glass shattered and he could grab those _damn_ hands.

 _Tick, tick._ One of the hands moved to push back the strands of wheat hair falling out of their oiled conviction, swiping across the slick neck above the damp collar of a summer Air Forces uniform he desperately wanted to unbutton. _Focus, old man._

MacArthur knew as well as he did, if not better, that these islands needed to be secure before they could think about winding Operation Cartwheel into motion. That was why he pushed for speed, but pressure often failed and demoralized a man far more than it helped. Alfred didn't want to give in to his way of thinking. Still—

 _Tick, tick._

Life, life.

He was wasting time.

"General—"

"If it's another blasted sinking ship, I don't want to hear about it," MacArthur barked, red in the face as he jabbed a finger at the clammy radio operator. "You tell Halsey what I said and get on with it, dammit!" He punctuated the curse with a hard _thump_ on the operation board, startling the players from their positions, and Alfred's head jerked with the resounding _BOOM_ of artillery fire. In it, he smelled melting metal, burning oil, and—oh, god—seared flesh. That ship wasn't simply sinking; it was on fire. Cringing and gnashing teeth, Alfred slammed the barrier back into place and forced his eyes to focus on the board rather than heave his stomach and body into the waves.

 _Dammit_ was right—there had to be _something_ he could do to end this chaos. What did he know? What advantage could he use?

 _If you don't desire your adversary to retreat, then close them in._ No—no, no, no. Whatever happened tonight, Arthur would not have a part in it. Alfred was still upset about his selfish secrecy concerning Matthieu's recovery. Bitterness filled his mouth at the mere thought of his letter, sticking like the smoke he'd left it to curl into in the trash bin.

Yet, as the first rule of warfare he had been taught, there was merit in it, and Alfred _had_ considered it, despite himself. Japan's foot tactics had changed little since the blitzkrieg that began last year, striking hard and fast from the front, moving immeasurably to the sides in order to strike from the rear—precisely like a clock crossing off time, but was it possible to maneuver those larger ships through a narrow channel without losing the advantage of blockading their passage?

Alfred bit back a groan and buried his head in his forearms, his fingers folding over his damp hair. He heard the name of the newly deceased ship— _burning, I'm burning, it hurts—_ and something akin to despair began to pace under his spine. His foot bounced of its own volition, burning— _please, I can't breathe!_ —anxious energy that had nowhere to go but needed to run unleashed— _put it out!_ —exactly has it had in his first years of conflict, when he was stuck making ruts in the encampment while Alex Hamilton tried to occupy his racing mind with correspondence. How they had both loathed these waiting periods. He needed to move, to take part in the victory, and he _definitely_ needed to stop thinking of Brandywine, of the thousand he had to leave for dead because Washington had poured everything into defending Philadelphia.

Had his Navy done that here? Was that why he had so little to give to defending Henderson Field tonight? Was a thousand men the number he would have to leave by dawn? No, their technique and technology was more advanced—but that meant nothing, didn't it? If anything, it meant _more_ dead—two thousand, ten. What was next, another Paoli? No, he was sure something similar had already happened. Men had already fallen on blades in the middle of the night, be they bayonets or— _DAMMIT, Alfred, focus, focus, focus—what precedent can be used to stop—_

Wait. Brandywine. Alfred's head swung up from the blue, tired eyes scanning the model ships in the stretch.

And he saw it.

"Push through the line," he bellowed suddenly, overshadowing MacArthur in the middle of ordering a retreat.

He whirled on Alfred with an incredulous glower. " _What?"_

Straightening and squaring his shoulders, Alfred expanded, "Push half the remaining destroyers through the Japanese line, keep the remaining in front, and have the submarines send torpedoes from round the back in order to cripple the convoy enough to abandon the mission." Battle at Brandywine Creek saw a diversionary blow at the center from the Hessians that allowed Howe and Cornwallis to swallow the Continentals from the rear. Moving the destroyers would create gaps in his line, but with any luck the Japanese would be so focused on them that they couldn't move theirs, and the battleships—

"And the battleships? They're more powerful than all of our squadron combined," said MacArthur with sagacity, lips pursing and small eyes narrowing in his thinly lined features.

Alfred couldn't discern whether that boded well or ill, but he found that he didn't particularly care. He was supposed to be the hero Americans needed in this theater, after all, standing proud before the Stars and Stripes and the Statue of Liberty. Confident, he dropped his war-brained stance and rested a hip against the table, crossing his arms. "The destroyers are my main concern, but send some of our subs their way, too." _How many lives is that, Alfred? How many are you playing with?_ He blinked rapidly. Now was not the— _tick, tick_.

Alfred sucked in a hard breath, willfully tuning out the clocks above his head. How he would love to smash one of them and watched the scattered glass fix his brain, but he settled for lifting an impatient eyebrow. "Well?"

"You're talking about firing at point blank range, son," said MacArthur lowly, not in the attentive manner of a man trying to understand his idea, but with the tone of one trying to make someone else comprehend how idiotic they were.

Alfred simply shrugged, too accustomed to that didactic vernacular to bother with offense. "It worked at Cape Esperance—"

"At great cost, I'll remind you. The Japs have fourteen destroyers out there, son— _fourteen._ We've barely managed to sink two." A telegram in MacArthur's hand was starting to crinkle under his tightening grip. Alfred glanced at it and felt the beginnings of a smirk draw on his lips.

"I'm aware that the South Pacific Area isn't our call, sir, and Task One, the capture and defense of Guadalcanal, falls to the Navy—"

" _Horseshit!_ Nimitz has the Navy, but as commander of the Southwest Pacific _I_ hold control over the Allied Naval Forces. Now, they're not the ones fighting out there tonight, but they will be soon if you don't get your head twisted back on straight," MacArthur averred, and Alfred was pleased to see the gram disappear entirely inside his fist with a muted sound of dismay. "I find it difficult to believe the President didn't inform you of those divisions as part of your arrangement here."

Alfred's grin dipped slightly. _He holds aspirations of commanding the Pacific Oceans Area in cooperation with his own._ How did that slip through his memory? He'd probably been too concerned about Matt and the bewildering fact that Roosevelt had subverted his own word to make him an Air Forces captain. He'd still been reeling from the promotion, and being in a plane hadn't helped him come down all that much. "He did, but I'm certain that our destroyers and subs stand a decent chance of damaging the convoy enough that their final investment on the island will be far depleted _if_ this plan is implemented immediately—or would you prefer the deaths to be on your hands for lack of action, sir? Such a loss would reflect poorly on your command, I don't doubt." It was a low blow, feeding on MacArthur's fear of replacement, something Alfred had read in his insistence on speed and his wish for the Philippines, but it _would_ be on his hands if Japan landed the 38th Division without enough resistance. That would lead to another massacre on Henderson Field, and then the death would be on Alfred's hands, too.

In some ways, it always was on his hands.

But that was not blood he wanted to wear. Not again. He didn't want to have to say, "Come boys, we shall do better another time."

 _Tick, tick._ Alfred's hand curled beneath his folded arm, but he kept a haughty look for MacArthur. _Well?_

The flash of indignant anger that told him he struck bone disappeared as quickly as it came, and MacArthur sighed, running a publicity-conscious hand over dark hair that shined with pomade. "Your plan is suicide, son," he said ferly. If he had a hat, Alfred thought—irrationally—that he'd be twirling it. Instead, a note of anxiety fleshed in MacArthur's abnormally subdued voice, and Alfred's mouth twisted in a disappointed frown. This wasn't how his commanders were supposed to act. Panache and rugged hardiness were their trademarks. His was an audacious plan, he would admit, and relied heavily on the hope that his sailors would rattle the Japanese enough for them to abandon their mission, but Alfred wouldn't suffer a repeat of Brandywine—in itself a repeat of Long Island. He refused.

With equal quiet, he responded, "It will be for the Marines and the fate of the island if Japan manages to supply reinforcements…sir." As he finished, he became aware that the din in the room had lulled into the rhythmic buzz of electric fans, letting his voice carry through them. Operators and aides held their breath and waited for their commander's response. Alfred wasn't dumb enough to let them inside his head, and the queries were written on most of their faces anyway: _Who should we listen to? Which are we sacrificing?_

Just like a chess game.

But as he dropped down from the high of a new idea, Alfred's thoughts ran along a different line. If MacArthur prioritized speed and land captures over the people sweating through the mud and blood, were any of them different from the Japanese High Command?

Worse, had Alfred given him that fodder?

It was too late to change. MacArthur huffed and gave the order—with special focus on the battleships—and as the clicking and ticking resumed, switchboard toggles flicking and radio operators rattling off breathless instructions while the fingers of wireless operators tapped demandingly, MacArthur strode with controlled steps around the operation table and grabbed Alfred's arm, leaning close enough that he could see red shot through the whites of his near-green eyes.

For his ears alone, and in breath rank with tobacco—enough that Alfred saw Arthur lighting a cigarette in the various rooms of the White House flash through his mind—MacArthur hissed, "When this plan fails—and it will—I will see to it that you are stationed back to Australia where you can sit the rest of this damned war in training faster than you can apologize to the President for your incompetency. We don't have time for a plan that's foolhardy and idiotic, and you're not experienced enough for this. Let it be a lesson."

It was Alfred's turn for his eyes to narrow, but rather than fall into anger, a wide and sanguine grin spread on his cheeks. "I'd say you have a few lessons to learn yourself, Douglas." Flicking his arm from MacArthur's mere sixty-two-year-old grip, Alfred shifted to face him head-on and added cavalierly, "Place your bets. It'll work."

Dropping his hand, MacArthur flashed him a dire look and, shaking his head, turned his back and went to the radios.

* * *

In the end, he proved correct. It was foolhardy, idiotic. Ambitious. America lost six ships in the Slot that night. Japan lost two, though one of their battleships looked in poor shape by the time Alfred left for Australia. They abandoned their mission, and so it was considered a strategic victory for the United States, but loss of life outweighed mechanical injury in Alfred's mind—or, it should have. Always.

He succumbed, barely even recognizing defeat as he fell. He gave to MacArthur's pressures of speed and overwhelming desire for land. He played games with lives—the opposite of his mission—and in the span of half an hour it cost as heavily as the humidity. Fire-branded shrapnel and charred bodies littered Guadalcanal's north shore by dawn.

Alfred had wondered how a personification such as Honda Kiku—a man whom he recalled in silent fury for being coerced into invasion of foreign influence—could ignore the belief plaguing his people that their lives were designed to be sacrificed for an empire that couldn't stand reliably on two feet. He should have asked himself whether the death in service that America's damn near-paranoid patriotism made appear honorable was veritably different from the blind duty his present enemy indoctrinated.

No, now was not the time to become disillusioned. It wasn't the time to berate himself. The one time, early on, that he lost hope in his Continental army, it cost him as badly as his old airs of superiority. So, the convoy had landed, but Alfred had heard aircraft engines roaring when he left. The base had been busy, not dead and defeated; Japan hadn't won this battle yet, but his part in it was undeniably finished—that was what MacArthur wanted, and Alfred hadn't the authority to deny him it.

He should have known better. He was old enough, experienced enough at this point to know that people died and populations changed. To a representative, they meant power, but he also knew that wars were often a game to them—testing grounds.

War wasn't a game for Alfred, but the fact was that he was good at it. Too good, or so he'd thought—so he'd been told, countless times, by Matthieu, Roosevelt—even Ludwig's brother had once laughingly admitted that his strategy was bold. New, young...

But what had he been thinking? He hated frontal assaults; his Revolution revealed that much about himself.

 _If you don't desire your enemy to retreat, then close him in._ He should have known better than to doubt Arthur's expertise, his tutelage. He was the reason Alfred knew how to manage war, after all, but instead he pushed on his autonomy. His _self-determination_ , as Roosevelt graciously put it aboard the _Augusta_ so many months ago…

Over a year now. It felt longer. Alfred hadn't heard the incessant ticking then. Like the war, it was easier to ignore.

The Coral Sea spread vivid and blue beneath the plane as Alfred, deflated and demoted, guided a P-40 back to Darwin for repairs the next morning, beckoning to be sailed but not battled upon. Ordinarily, Alfred would have been craning his neck to glimpse it over the nose, but today he couldn't stand the thought of looking at the water, knowing what was occurring in its northeastern brethren, knowing that more bodies had been devoured in its depths mere hours before because of his pride and intransigence.

Knowing that Arthur was a sea animal, captain of his soul, and Alfred should have used what knowledge he had been bestowed by him for that express purpose. He thought of what his expression would say, the imperious smirk that would undoubtedly cross it if he knew how badly Alfred had failed.

 _We don't have time for a plan that's foolhardy and idiotic._

 _Let this be a lesson._

He could almost hear the venom Arthur would have quoted MacArthur with. His fingers curled around the control column, the friction between the leather squeaking under his grip as he fought with all the muscles in his arms to keep the snapped rudder cables from urging the plane to drift too high.

If the lesson was that his entire life was a series of contests and conflicts, but sometimes he wished he still had Swedish-style neutrality in this one, then perhaps he was more human than he ought to be. Commanders made mistakes. Washington and Arthur had both made plenty of them, and they always managed to come back strong—particularly against one another.

Brandywine wasn't the problem. Defeat there hadn't bowed his spirit, in part because his men hadn't been demoralized.

Perhaps, then, his weakness could be a gift. Letting them in caused him pain, but if Alfred could use it to his advantage, take his fighters' experiences on the field and turn them into a stellar strategy…

It might just win.

* * *

 _This war is a testing ground._ He saw that now. It was a test of resolve that he was losing.

Everything was a haze as thick as the muggy mist clinging to his uniform. The sounds of a nation crying under duress throbbed constantly on the edges of Kiku's mind, depleted and starving and desperate for support that none of their peers could—that _he_ could not—give.

He was too busy fighting, himself.

He could have simplified the losses into numbers. In fact, it almost would have been easier to count the dozens of ships and thousands of lives he had so far given to Britain and the United States, living an indifferent bliss that Kiku at times wished he could hope to know, but he could not bring himself to tally them like simple threads woven in his uniform, stained and designed to provide him warmth and protection.

Still, dissolving himself in faceless, heedless numbers would have been preferable to wading through these murky currents in the colorless dusk after sunset.

Wading across the strong, flooded waters of the Oivi Creek proved harder than he expected, the rushing in his ears composing a cacophony with the growling of his empty stomach and the creaking tendons beneath the too light pack on his shoulders. He pushed on in a state of hyperawareness that told him he needed to reach the other side, to reach the coast or all of his men were dead. They were already weak and low on ammunition—Kiku had no bullets left in the rifle he toted above his head—the possibility of aircraft bombardment was never far from his mind, and he was _losing_.

The beleaguered breaths pushing through his grated teeth proved how little he had left to lose, and the exertion urged his mind to blank, but he kept it firmly planted that he needed to keep what was left of his regiment alive long enough to hail an escort to take them back to Rabaul. Despite better judgment and the risk of dishonor, he couldn't help that it was his purpose.

He was losing. He was _retreating._ It was humiliating, but this plan was his last option. Once they were off, he would stay and guide the last of his South Seas Detachment to the best of his ability.

Swirling skies above him dropped thick drops as if they didn't want him to escape, dusky clouds allying themselves with the Allies and their planes that forced him to fight at night, their plans, their seemingly endless stream of supplies that could be dropped at the tip of a hat—or, wing. Kiku pushed his soaked legs harder through the churning waters.

 _America._ He had to have everything.

"Colonel Yazawa!"

A shot echoed the shout of his alias, barely louder than the water, and Kiku's head jerked instinctively over his shoulder, slowing as he watched as the young man who shouted keel over and give to the waves without leaving so much as a red stain in the water. Those nearest him didn't pause to mourn. There wasn't time. Survivalist instinct claimed them and they ran as fast as their bony legs would allow. Another shot fired from the thick cover of palm and rubber trees banking the south side, and Kiku glimpsed another soldier sink unceremoniously beneath.

 _The Australians have found us. Again._

The effect of this thought as it swept across the tattered remains of his regiment was instantaneous. They pushed themselves harder, faster, focusing on the bank ahead and the promise of familiar ocean beyond instead of the shifting in the trees on the one behind them. Some bent down to swim, their elbows the highest points of their thin, dark bodies, bloated sticks seeking purchase in unstable ground. _Cowards,_ Kiku thought, and yet he understood their desperation, that anti-cadaverous sense of preservation. It pressed into his person with the malaise of fear, infecting a promise of fighting to the death if they must. But, like the human beings they were, they didn't want to.

This transition occurred in a matter of seconds, and all the while Kiku, unguided, was swept into the current, turning on his own soldiers like a dart seeking a target. In that same moment, he registered someone unexpected. Someone, he realized, he very much wanted to harm.

His fingers curled around the metal barrel and grip until it bent and shrapnel splinters pierced his palms. The pain forced focus through his fog, and Kiku dug his feet into the mud at the bottom, twirling the dart away from his own men with determined ease and aiming for the south bank, the red center instead of the edges.

Hoping the Australians catalogued his abrupt about-face as part of the disorder—others were plunging deeper west than they should have to draw land—Kiku ran aground farther east from their main positions and lowered his arms, dislodging the bayonet with a harsh, metal-cracking _snap_ and tossing the rifle into the tall grasses. It could have made itself useful as a blunt weapon, but guns were too bulky, too heavy for his comfort. He preferred something he could wield and twist.

Even if he were in top form, however, he couldn't take on a full battalion of Australians by himself, so Kiku darted silently south and west through the trees, disturbing a palm brush here and there, shaking the kunai grasses, but the camouflage of cloudy night and canopies of fronds on his black uniform granted him the unseen stealth of a snake. Anyone—any villager or soldier—could mistake him for something harmless, and they would live, but if they dared to inspect—

A spray of blood splattered across Kiku's face as, some five minutes into his sneaking about, he was forced to slit the throat of an Australian infantry who ventured too close to the rubber tree he slid behind. He caught the _gaijin_ before he fell and lowered him gently into the mud beneath the branches, leaving him for nature to bury unless his fellows found him first.

Wiping the blood and moving on, he didn't think about the wide-eyed terror that had been his final expression. He didn't think about the life he left behind, or whether he had anyone waiting for him at home, wherever that was. He wasn't his countryman, and therefore not his legacy to bear. His thoughts, his nocent mission existed only to ascertain that his regiment felt free. That they didn't fear death, only surrender. That they reached their target— _annex the island. Expand the empire._

 _Harvest its resources._

Thus, whenever he came across a white-skinned man with his back to him and his Bren poking through the leaves at the creek, Kiku's mind swiped away his individuality and delivered death, slashing adversarial voices into sputters and wet cries. Sometimes they were swift, sometimes they dragged on, but Kiku maintained they were better off dead than to allow themselves to be taken prisoner when his armies retook this place, made it part of the Co-Prosperity Sphere under Imperial Japan's gracious rule. _Better to die in glory than to give yourself to the enemy,_ he whispered in their ears, in perfect English for them to understand with startling clarity, wrenching weapons from their trembling fingers, closing his hand over their gasping mouths. He wouldn't pretend death was something he enjoyed, but it was a fact of life, an inevitable path of his existence and relationships, and he would not stand to see _his own men_ avoiding it in order to survive.

Survival, he understood. He knew that deep in his heart. _Survivor_ was simply a disgusting word.

Moving through the trees, Kiku had enough visibility to see his prey seconds before he had to act or be shot, but his mind was stuck on a thread of mortality, which was why he didn't sense him, or the gun, as soon as he should have.

The shot lodged in his shoulder with enough force to push Kiku into the nearest tree and jar him back to reality. He didn't scream but was rather unabashedly surprised to feel blood gushing over his fingers; the shooter struck an artery.

Hearing movement in the low branches ahead of him, he jerked his head up and clutched the bayonet behind his back. Blood sprang there, too, and he nearly choked on relief. "If you don't mind, I would like to see who I am about to kill," he called, again in English. His voice held a throaty burr, his tongue unable to completely form the proper inflections, but the shooter didn't care about that. He already knew who he was, just as Kiku—when the beliefs of his soldiers subsided and his mind returned—knew whom he was up against, a name registered in the few precious, heart-throbbing moments he stood alone and bleeding against a rubber tree.

Fleetingly, he wondered how many strokes of an axe it would take to cut it down, how many tank tires he could produce with the milky fluid inside that coagulated so easily. How much he could steal to use as a clot.

Then his adversary snorted, and Kiku jerked back to his most pressing issue. "As if. I was going to play beaten and give you the advantage of having a few fellows at your disposal, but—really— _slaughtering_ my infantry. That's brutal, even for you mate, and now you've gone and pissed me off—again. _That_ one was for Darwin." Australia didn't lower the gun as he stepped into the small, tree-pillared clearing, the barrel gleaming dully in the penumbra flashing across his bronzed skin. Was it natural still, or had it been darkened by the sun? Why did Kiku care?

Digging his fingers into his shoulder, Kiku gnashed his teeth and forced himself to focus. His head was rarely his own anymore, but at least Australia had given him the strength to feel his own pain rather than the thousands already dead in this unbearable jungle.

"I have done nothing I must not do—"

"Is that so?"

"To save my people."

Jack Kirkland—Kiku thought that was his name, one of Britain's lesser-known and lesser-respected dominions—paused with visible bewilderment. "I thought…" Barely a yard away, a shadowed gaze raked over him, struggling to remember how to react. The gun started to lower—

Kiku seized the opportunity, lurching forward with the bayonet. The blade edge connected with Australia's face before he had the sense to move, but he threw himself backward the moment the cut registered, clutching his nose and firing another round. Pops filled the cloying air, reverberating against the mist as the bullets themselves lodged in the trees and the ground. Only one grazed Kiku in the flank, much as if they were choreographing a new assault, but he barely felt it, swooping down and aiming another stab at Australia's leg.

And the young representative cried out when Kiku's blood-rusted bayonet dragged harshly across his boot, cutting easily through the tough leather and slicing his Achilles tendon. He swung the Bren instinctively, striking Kiku across the face and sending him rolling through the mud. Both of them plunged to a stop on the ground, near-simultaneous in their collapse.

"Clever," Jack growled through a red mouth, blood flowing freely from the deep gash across the right bridge of his nose. He refused to let go of the gun, but his free hand clutch at his calf, where an unsightly bulge rose above the top of his boot and the wound underneath. His tendon had rolled under the skin, crippling his ability to walk. His total freedom was gone, for now, for as long as Kiku needed him to be, and he couldn't help feeling vindicated as he pushed off his chest, ignoring the blood seeping into his slick hair from the wound Australia made on his temple.

Everything here was laden thick with blood and mud. They were simply giving it seminal life. Or, perhaps, a gruesome death.

Australia struggled to move back on his hands when Kiku approached, but he wore quickly, succumbing to the malarial heat his soldiers suffered under. Kiku, who had learned to operate under it, who didn't dare return to Tokyo whenever he pleased for the sake of not straining his sanity further, kicked the Bren from his grip. It let off a shot like an alarm as it landed, striking the rubber tree he had been pushed into when this began, and it was then that Australia stopped and pushed himself, haltingly, to his feet, gasping deep, pained breaths. Once upright, he clenched his fists and balanced proudly on one foot. He was stubborn, Kiku would grant him that. He wondered whether the trait was genetic or ingrained.

"What's next, you're going to tie me to a tree, stab me until my heart gives out like you did those poor mates in Milne Bay?" said Australia truculently, trembling with suppressed rage. Kiku glanced at his white-knuckled hands, contemplated the benefits of engaging him in a boxing match.

No, he wasn't worth it.

"When d'you plan on invading, Jap?" he added, spitting. The blood running down his face and neck gave him an unnerving likeness to a carnivore, but Kiku simply blinked.

"Your home?" he said idly, hovering far enough away that Australia could not claw him easily. "I am not."

For a moment, Australia's astonishment betrayed his humanity. Then his blazing gaze returned with ardor and odium. "You're lying."

"No," Kiku responded, stolid. _I could show you,_ but he wouldn't willingly give what was left of his mental strength to the parochial philistines of his present government. Not for a personification who wielded a gun as though it was the only defense he knew how to use. "You mistake the raids on Darwin for more than they are intended. You are not of concern to me or my land."

"Who is your biggest concern, then?" he demanded, but he was too forthright, too human-natured. He said _who_ when he should have used _what._ He already knew the answer.

So Kiku chose not to waste time on one. He dropped and swung his leg, uprooting Australia's, who landed on his back with a grunt and hiss. He started immediately to roll, but Kiku grabbed the back of his uniform and hauled him back, scouring his thick neck with his nails as his hand wrapped around it, and he lifted the bayonet, letting it shine with the same dull gleam as the pathetic machinery his opponent believed would rescue him from harm.

Jack didn't struggle. Kiku thought a part of him knew it was pointless to waste the energy, even if he was twice Kiku's size and his shoulder ached enough that it could give out any moment.

"You ally yourself too closely with what your people believe," he said drily.

When Jack grinned through his gasps, it was red and bright. "Those bodies back there would suggest the same about you, mate. I may not be the smartest one of us, but it's as you said, I'm not the one you're worried about. Take another look see."

Despite himself, Kiku did as he was told, stretching his senses far and wide along the narrow strip of island the fighting was contained in. The soothing, beautiful scent of petrichor wove caustically through the metallic and dank earth around them, and he heard the land's travails, distantly. Kiku shoved them aside, searching deeper—

The shock must have thrust through his systematic stoicism. He barely felt it form on his old, smooth features, but Jack laughed. They were gasping, heartrending things, echoing faintly off the fronds above their heads, and they exposed the terrible burden of his youth, untouched by centuries of battle scars and the chasms of feeling that one eventually came to heed by heart.

A tremor shot through Kiku, and he folded the bayonet into his palm, curling his fists into the lapels of Australia's mucky coat. As he did, he noticed that their uniforms nearly matched in the moonless dark, that their blood stained the same on the cotton.

He could feel panic rising at the thought of any similarities with his enemies. Was that his thought or another's? He could barely tell the difference anymore. "What does America plan to do? Australia— _tell me, now!"_

Still chortling, he responded cheekily, "If I did, I'd be a traitor."

His mouth spreading into a white line, Kiku's grip slackened, trying desperately to reign in this shameful fear; he'd be damned if he let this idiot ruin every piece of himself—every resentment, every inexplicable bout of pride, every horror—he had so tenaciously kept under lock and key. So insignificant an opponent as Australia would not destroy his control—what was left of it. Not here, nor in whatever battlefield they traded shots in next, so he killed the naïveté without ceremony. One punch, a simple _crack_ , softer and swifter than a gunshot, and Australia fell limp underneath his grasp.

He left the Bren but took his provisions before quitting the clearing, heading back through the labyrinth he had filled with bodies. His image stuck, however—the unconscious youth, still enough to be sleeping or dead, his face a mess of blood and bruises. Kiku was reminded of the prisoner he was forced to punish in Ofuna, the starved, stuck, and helplessly mortal man who only wanted to know how the world's chaos fared.

* * *

Footnotes:  


1\. Papua, 1942 = New Guinea, present-day (the southern half, until the present-day boundary. The island was split thrice at this time and managed between the Dutch and Australians.)

 **2\. People:  
** Admiral Chester Nimitz was the Commander-in-Chief of the Pacific Oceans Area. He and MacArthur rarely saw eye-to-eye.

Admiral William Halsey was made Commander-in-Chief of the South Pacific Area by Admiral Nimitz in October 1942, formerly the commander of US carriers. He didn't technically answer to MacArthur, and truth be told, MacArthur probably wouldn't have needed to have any role in the engagement described, but he was keen to take over the Navy, so I took that wish and exaggerated it a bit.

Sir Thomas Blamey was the only Australian to serve on MacArthur's senior staff, but he remained excluded from strategic policy making, a fact which he resented and even threatened to resign from his position if he was not allowed direct access to Prime Minister Curtin, but his record worked against him. He was rather renowned in the First World War, but time and age had removed him from developments in military technology, and his training for the Second World War was for high command instead of putting him on the field to relearn how to use his resources. This ignorance showed first in Greece, and then in the Middle East before he returned to Australia to command, nominally, the Allied Land Forces, or the Australian Military Forces. MacArthur sent him to take personal ground command in Papua in September 1942.

Quick Note About Roosevelt: It turns out he was known to make contradictory promises. Hence, subverting proper channels to make Alfred an Air Forces Captain ( _see "Trust Me" for a refresher, if necessary)_.

 **World War II  
** **3\. MacArthur:** After losing the Philippines, he developed a fear that one more wrong move would see him removed from command, which was problematic because he believed it was his destiny to see the Philippines liberated. He had helped develop its military in the late 1930s, toured it with his father and spent his first tour of duty there as an engineer. His desperation to return is a part of why he pressured Australian and American units for a swift capture of Papua. Perhaps another motivator for his insistence is due to a discreet payment of $500,000 he accepted as gratitude from Filipino president Manuel Quezon before leaving the island in March 1942.

 **4\. MacArthur's Eye Color:** I couldn't actually find what his eye color was, but in the one color picture I found, they looked kind of blue, kind of brown, so I thought they might be hazel. Either way, I think you see the symbolism.

 **5\. Battle of Cape Esperance:** On the night of 11/12 October 1942, an American naval force surprised a Japanese force and opened fire at a distance of 5,000 yards (4,570 meters)—for ships, that's pointblank. According to _WWII,_ it wasn't a particularly enormous victory for either side, but it helped restore some much-needed American morale.

 **6\. Guadalcanal:** By this point, the Solomon Islands campaign was in critical condition for both sides, which is part of why Alfred's focus in this chapter is centered so heavily on it. The American 1st Marine Division (reinforced with army troops from the Americal Division) could not make progress past Henderson Airfield and the coast around it, and the divisions of the Japanese 17th Army struggling to hold onto it were dying in droves from disease and starvation. Attacks on Henderson Field—so named for a marine who was killed at Midway—were brutal and bloody, and by November bombardment of it occurred with "disturbing regularity" (US Naval Historical Center).

The naval engagement on the night of 12/13 November begins a series of three nights of such battles, characterized by aircraft strafing during the day and naval bombardment during the night as Japanese warships and transport ships tried to land the 38th Division on Guadalcanal, resulting in heavy losses on both sides. In the end, only 2,000 men from 4 out of 11 troop transports would make it on land, with hardly any supplies, and the battles were ultimately what sealed the fate of Japan on the island. This first battle, however, remains one of the most disorganized and chaotic of the campaign.

"The Slot" was a nickname given by US sailors to the confined channel between Guadalcanal and the surrounding islands to its north. Ironbottom Sound is slightly northwest of this.

"One of their battleships looked in poor shape" refers to the Japanese battleship _Hiei_. It was not scuttled (deliberately sunk by opening seacocks in the hull) overnight but in the afternoon of the thirteenth.

 **7\. Port Moresby:** MacArthur moved his GHQ (General Headquarters) there from Brisbane on 6 November 1942.

 **8\. Port Moresby, too:** The Japanese 18th Army landed in Buna and Gona, New Guinea, on 22 July 1942 and made rapid progress through the Owen Stanley mountain range, intending to seize the Papuan capital and isolate Australia, whose ports were key launch points for Allied aircraft and ships—in particular, Darwin. By September, they were nearly within reach when Thomas Blamey took over, regrouped their positions and pushed back, eventually pushing the Japanese all the way back to their starting points. It is relevant to note, too, that at this stage the campaign was being waged in Papua's wet season, meaning rains were constant, and it turned the dirt paths to mud. To make matters worse, the humidity was terrible, and the kunai grasses—which grow to about six feet and have sharp leaves—trap heat, pushing temperatures even higher when walking through them.

 **9\. Quinine** : the primary anti-malarial drug used (at least) by Australian infantry, and it was in short supply on Papua New Guinea. The effects of malaria in this campaign were even worse than on Guadalcanal. There were periods where the disease was at nearly 100 percent among their troops, but they still fought and operated with +100 degrees-Fahrenheit fevers.

 **10\. Snapped rudder cables:** These connect to a vertical stabilizer and worked with the ailerons (hinged surfaces on wings) to control a plane's movement. If one of these is disconnected, it can be difficult to fly the craft at a consistent height.

 **11\. Plaguing Beliefs:** When Alfred mentions that he wondered how Honda Kiku "could ignore the belief plaguing his people that their lives were designed to be sacrificed", he's a bit blind to the differences in cultural perceptions of death between Japan and Western nations at this time. While Americans tend to quiver at the thought of dying, for the Japanese in World War II death was a passage, not something to mourn heavily—particularly in combat, where I believe I've already stated that surrender presented the utmost dishonor. As such, the very word "survivor" was offensive to them.

 **12\. Japan's Alias:** I cannot find any pictures of Colonel Kiyomi Yazawa, who commanded the 41st Infantry Regiment in Papua New Guinea (see below), so I chose this as an alias for Honda Kiku at this stage. There is symbolism in it.

 **13\. 41** **st** **Infantry Regiment:** The Battle of Oivi-Gorari was waged 4 – 11 November 1942. In the days leading up to the Japanese withdraw from these villages—along with Baribe—Australian battalions confronted entrenched Japanese with hand-to-hand combat while others flanked Oivi and headed for Gorari, intending to pinch them inside. Realizing this, Lt. General Tomitaro Horii, who commanded the South Seas Detachment on New Guinea, ordered a withdraw on the night of 11/12 November, inciting Australian pursuit. Not all regiments received the order, however, though Yazawa did, and he took what remained of his regiment across the flooded Oivi Creek and made for the coast rather than following as a rearguard. Two days before the withdraw, his regiment was heavily bombarded by American aircraft.

 **14\. "So insignificant an opponent as Australia":** Until 1944, Australians comprised the bulk of the ground forces in Papua New Guinea. In this respect, however, they didn't receive much gratitude for it from the Americans who were managing everything. When Jack talks about MacArthur sacking the Papuan campaign commander, MacArthur had no idea how well the Australians were actually fighting, much less the conditions they were operating under. He wanted the island, he wanted to get to the Philippines, and he didn't want Australia stealing America's glory. I cannot speak for the Japanese, but I'm fairly certain—aside from those stationed in Papua New Guinea—that many were not as concerned about Australian force as they were about American.

On a side note, Kiku's comment about Australia being one of the "lesser-respected" dominions of Britain refers to the icy relations between British and Australian leaders that punctuated the first years of the war. This is one interpretation. Another may stem from the note below…

 **15\. Australian views on the Japanese:** In the basest emotional sense, the Australians loathed the Japanese. Many viewed them as something subhuman. Phobia of the Japanese was in part fostered by their defensively isolationist interwar years and aggravated by actions taken to protect their interests and preferential status in British markets, which involved reducing trade with Japan, but what sealed it was the first raid on Darwin. Afterward, fear of invasion felt so imminent that they built up their defenses and threw themselves into the Pacific War.

(By the way, even though "Jap" was a very common slur during World War II, it would not be a good idea to say this to a Japanese person today. It remains _very_ derogatory.)

 **American Revolution  
** **1\. Hamilton:** For those who are interested, Alexander Hamilton became Washington's aide-de-camp in late January 1777.

 **2\. Philadelphia & Brandywine: **Because Philadelphia was one of the largest cities in colonial America and the home of the Continental Congress—therefore, the rebel capital—British General William Howe chose to take it in the spring of 1777, relying on the substantial Loyalist sentiment there for support and the expectation that Washington would draw his forces away from John Burgoyne in the northern wilderness of New York and Vermont so that they could, essentially, divide and conquer. His reputation for caution, however, gave Washington plenty of time to prepare (the battle didn't begin until 11 September) and yet, Howe proved correct. Washington took a report stating that four girls had seen redcoats "in great numbers" heading for the capital at face value. It was a diversionary force, but Washington thought it was Howe's main force and sent the bulk of his to defend Philadelphia, thereby leaving fords across Brandywine Creek—where they had set up to engage Howe and his subordinates from the direction _opposite_ Philadelphia—unguarded.

Philadelphia took longer to capture, but Brandywine was lost in less than a day due to poor tactical choices, a British bayonet charge, and the Hessian commander turning the Continentals' own cannons against them. Both were resounding defeats—Congress, willfully and under pressure from the pleas of Alexander Hamilton, escaped to the village of York—but while Brandywine didn't shake the Americans, losing Philadelphia was a huge psychological blow, and many officers began to question Washington's abilities.

 **3\. "Come boys, we shall do better another time"** was recorded by Delaware Captain Enoch Anderson following the aftermath of Brandywine as a morale boost, and the manner in which this entry was written suggests that it had been used before.

 **4\. Paoli:** After Brandywine, Howe set up an outpost at Valley Forge, Pennsylvania. Learning of this, Washington sent "Mad Anthony" Wayne with 1,500 men and four cannons to Paoli in order to harass the British rearguard, but he failed to take into account the Loyalist sentiments of the town, and Howe was informed prior about their intent to attack. He sent Major General Charles Grey to surprise them on the night of 21 September 1777, which he did without firing a single shot. Instead, Grey ordered his men to sneak silently around the campsite and stab the rebels with the bayonets on their muskets. By the end, anywhere from between 150-500 Continentals lay on the ground, the minimum number of which were horribly mutilated, earning this event the name of "Paoli Massacre" by the locals.

 _Chapter Information Sources:  
_ (New Source Abbreviation: _CHA_ = _A Concise History of Australia,_ by Stuart Macintyre)

1\. AAHII  
 _2\. Alexander Hamilton,_ by Ron Chernow  
 _3\. The American Revolution: What Really Happened,_ by Alan Axelrod  
4\. "Arthur S. Carpender" – Wikipedia  
5\. "Battle of Buna-Gona" – Wikipedia  
6\. "Battle of Oivi-Gorari" – Wikipedia  
7\. "Blamey, Sir Thomas Albert (1884–1951)" – David Horner, Australian Dictionary of Biography  
 _8\. Code Name Verity_ , by Elizabeth Wein (Fiction, but, having been written by a pilot, this book lent me tons of information on flying an aircraft as well as terminology)  
 _9\. CHA  
_ 10\. "Douglas MacArthur" – Biography. com  
11\. "Douglas MacArthur" – Wikipedia  
 _12\. Franklin and Winston  
_ 13\. "General of the Army Douglas MacArthur" – National Museum of the US Army Campaign, Army Historical Foundation  
 _14\. The Historical Atlas of World War II,_ by Alexander and Malcom Swanston  
15\. "MacArthur, Douglas (1880–1964)" – David Horner, Australian Dictionary of Biography  
16\. "New Guinea Campaign" – Wikipedia  
17\. "The Second Naval Battle of Guadalcanal" – Seth Paridon, National WWII Museum  
18\. "U.S. Navy Battleships – USS Washington (BB 56)" – Naval Historical Center, US Navy  
 _19\. Washington's Spies,_ by Alexander Rose  
 _20\. When Books Went to War,_ by Molly Guptill Manning  
 _21\. WWII_

I have a little favor to ask you of you, lovely readers: I would like to write another historical Hetalia one shot, and I've posted a couple ideas in a poll displayed on my profile, but it has been up for months and I've only received one vote. If you are interested in reading the product of this little side venture, check it out and vote, please! I would greatly appreciate it, and - as always - thank you for reading.


	15. Disconnected

**Disconnected**

" _[D]o not spare any reasonable expense to come at early and true information;  
_ _always recollecting, and bearing in mind, that vague and uncertain accounts of things…  
_ _is more disturbing and dangerous than receiving none at all."  
_ – Gen. George Washington in a letter to Lt. Caleb Brewster, 8 August 1778

 **13 NOVEMBER 1942**

Alfred had wondered how one such as Honda Kiku could ignore the belief plaguing his people that their lives were designed to be sacrificed for the dream of an empire that could stand reliably on two feet. He thought he knew the answer—at least, he thought he knew what he shouldn't think.

In truth, he was only as aware as any young man his age could be. But, as young men are wont to in their transitions to adulthood, he was about to discover one moot point:

"What the hell happened to you?"

Leaning against the AA gun in the station on the far side of the apron, away from the offices and human life, Jack smiled—well, what he could manage of one. It looked more like a grimace from Alfred's angle. "I might ask the same of you, mate. You look like the devil ran through—which rumor has it did."

Alfred didn't know how to respond. Jack's presence at the air base had been a shock in itself when he landed; he'd expected him to be up north in the thick of the fighting. But his war-dead eyes said he hadn't been here long, and that he intended to go back. Darwin—his home, for all Alfred knew—was only a pit-stop.

And, given the damage Alfred saw as he scanned his face, he wouldn't be surprised if Jack had been forced into temporary leave. When, after informing the ground crews of the snapped rudder cables, he walked across the apron, he'd expected a spread of sandy-smooth skin—if not a few remnants of the shadows he'd noticed his first night—but it was as if indigo had exploded across his face. A bruised eye that had been all but healed four nights ago was nearly swollen shut; his other eye didn't look much better, and thick bandaging seemed to be the only thing retaining his sense of smell to his face. Beneath all of it, black lines of broken veins branched from an injury Alfred couldn't see.

He scanned Jack's khaki uniform, but the only indication that the injury had come from up north was the mud on his boots, and that was dry enough to be at least a day old.

"My God…" he breathed, looking back up. Who could have done _that_ and forced the worst of it stay longer than twenty-four hours?

Jack barked a brittle laugh. "And here I was told you weren't religious."

"I'm…not." Alfred frowned. "Who told—" The teller exposed himself before he even finished asking, and Alfred sighed, something like a grin jumping onto his face. "Matt's been talking to you over the years, too."

"Quite a few of us dominions, actually—but only at Commonwealth conferences, when the Big Man's not in the room." Jack shrugged. "Can't help that people are quite curious about you. Your…achievements."

"Tell me about it," Alfred muttered. The last thing he wanted right then was to delve into his history with Britain—and it was clear that Jack wanted to at some point—when the news he had of the present made him feel like the child Arthur claimed him to be.

He honestly considered lying about his failure, but he knew that was a bad idea the moment it crossed his mind. If the bastard Arthur had taught Jack anything, it was how to recognize when someone was lying—rather ironic given that he was such a gifted liar himself, but then none could say they hadn't learnt from the best when the taught became the tutor.

If he was honest, however, Alfred didn't want to be the one to initiate that conversation. He wasn't keen on shying away from confrontation—he had never quite grasped that wisdom when it would have been useful in the past—but he remembered the disappointment in Jack's face when Alfred didn't get him into the war room that first night; moreover, his anxiety on the docks, and Alfred didn't take much reassurance from the way Jack was staring at him now, either, as if he anticipated nothing but good things from him—all because of his grand _achievements._

Alfred supposed that Matt could have mentioned he was a brilliant tactician, or that he knew his way around a battlefield simply because he'd been on them so damn often throughout his life. They weren't white lies, exactly, but nor were they the whole truth; under them, he became too perfect. Too…complete. Satisfied. Sagacious.

He may be something in the art of polemology—as every other one of his kind was forced to be—but he could think of a few arguments to contradict the concept that he was old enough to know how to avoid it.

"You haven't answered my question," he said, as plainly as if he didn't see the hope in Jack's battered face. "What happened? Did you run into something up north?" _Or someone?_ Alfred didn't dare say that, but they both heard the unspoken, for Jack's grin faded, and he glanced down at the bulky, thirty-pound shell tucked into the recesses of the station, waiting to be used against planes like the P-40 Alfred flew. Except, they would bear red circles in place of white stars.

"Something like that," he uttered, almost inaudibly, before lifting his head and shoulders again with pseudo-nonchalance. "I've looked worse, but since we're getting down to business: you've returned far too early for anything good to come of it. The general give you a tough night? I heard there was a massive naval conflict."

The tightness of his jaw gave it away: _someone_ and _something_ were relative terms. He knew exactly who his attacker was, but—whether out of pride or a misplaced concern to protect—he would not reveal a name. Alfred hoped dearly that it wasn't a friendly; if word got out that allies were turning against one another, morale would be crushed, rendering Alfred's task a great deal harder to accomplish in a single stroke.

It was awful, truly, how much easier it was to dampen support—especially civilian support—when it was news of one's own failures that made national headlines instead of the enemy's successes.

Alfred gnashed his teeth. "I've been kicked out."

Jack stilled. "After four nights?"

"Correct." Alfred smoothed a wrinkle in his A-2 to give his agitated energy somewhere to go. Darwin was nowhere near as humid as Port Moresby, but it was still warm enough that the sunlight sinking through the leather would stifle him before long, with or without the cool breeze coming off the bay. "I fucked up in the S—in stratagem last night, and—"

"And Mister High Mucketie thinks there isn't enough time to give you another shot," Jack finished, straining against the slight wheeze in his thick voice. All traces of humor and rakishness had vanished when Alfred next lifted his eyes, replaced with a stern pucker to his split lips. "Typical," he added with surprising acidity and raked a hand through the bark-colored strands of his hair, slightly longer than regulation permitted and trapping in his eyelashes. Being in a war zone, he probably didn't bother with hair oil, and Alfred wondered fleetingly if it was coarse like the blackbutts he saw around here, or smooth and light like their white tops.

He jerked his eyes down, pushing out the thought—strange as it was—and watched alertly as Jack nearly scrubbed his face, too, before thinking better of it and asking shortly, "Presuming he sent you here, that means you're going to be doing what, exactly?"

Alfred shrugged. "Test runs, training pilots, repair work if necessary…morale-boosting," he finished lamely, earning what he assumed was supposed to be a snort. His unkempt jaw tightened. Like everything else expressive about Jack, his dismay was obvious, drifting into the sharp-edged pencil twitching aside the clipboard against his thigh. For his part, Alfred felt foolish enough for having lasted only four days in Operations when he had gone years before in direct combat; Jack was younger, more naïve than he—what right had he to belittle his efforts when he hadn't so much as the clearance to pass through the iron doors?

He didn't bother answering the thought. It sounded like the attitude of the man who raised him—hierarchal, imperial, and arrogant. Someone Alfred used to be. Someone he became in the dark last night.

Alfred squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the weary skin beneath them, pushing up his glasses. He wasn't going to last long here at all if he kept sinking into the past. How was it that he kept ending up in places and situations that reminded him of what he couldn't have and didn't want back? It was as if the world didn't want him to forget the crude, crass things he'd done.

Which was…rather fair, now that he thought about it, but it wasn't helping him _now_. So, straightening his glasses, Alfred shirked the negativity and said brusquely, "I can't disobey his orders as an Air Forces Captain—and he made certain that's all I would be here. I don't have the authority."

"Something tells me you wouldn't even if your Army rank was retained," Jack remarked, humorlessly.

Alfred chose not to take that bait. "Like as not, no. I wouldn't."

Jack breathed slowly. "So he sends you to the place that gets bombed twice a month, is nearest to the fighting and is remote enough to bore you out of your mind. He must be _begging_ you to break the rules, so why don't you?"

"What?"

"Why don't you just jump north? I can direct you to your division."

"I—you think I haven't thought of that?" he retorted, although he hadn't, and braced his gloved hands on his hips. "If I could without being caught, I would."

Jack frowned—scowled, more like. Anything remotely dubious that marked itself on his face in its condition became darker than he likely intended. "You wouldn't get caught."

"That's where you're wrong. I would need a legitimate reason for being there, which means whomever is commanding the Thirty-Second Division would have to report my presence to MacArthur and request my records in order to confirm my orders."

"So? You were kicked out of _Base Operations_. That isn't a battlefield, mate—"

"No, but if I'm inferring correctly, you were also kicked out." Alfred ignored Jack's sharp intake of breath, despite the confirmation it offered, and pressed on, "and MacArthur can't send you Stateside if you're not American. He would have every right to send me home if I'm caught disobeying orders. I cannot let that happen." _Roosevelt is counting on me._ And Alfred did not want to let him down. He had already done too much, subverted too much proper protocol to put him in this position, and while a reinstatement order would be welcome, Alfred had already promised himself that he wouldn't complain. He had accomplished much more without presidential intervention in the past; he didn't need to engage that sort of spoils system again to get back into the war room.

Jack wouldn't know that, of course, and yet it appeared he had to bite back retort to respond in the orderly, disaffected manner of an officer, "Since you're going to be here for a while, come with me. I've to return these reports to the office"—he waved the clipboard under his arm—"and head back north, but I can answer any questions you have about the base or what the men here need while I'm still round."

Alfred nodded curtly. "Your assistance would be appreciated. Thank you."

Jack reciprocated his nod, stepped off the station with his right foot—

And promptly collapsed onto the concrete, hissing. The clipboard clattered and curses flew freely from his mouth before he had the space of mind to do anything else, drawing the curiosity of the ground crew by the wounded P-40.

Forcing a smile onto his unwilling cheeks, Alfred waved and called, "He'll be all right—bad leg is all!" Without waiting for a response or even to ensure he was believed, he bent down, blocking their prying eyes with his back, and searched for the pain.

Jack's face was one struggling hard to suppress what he felt. When he dropped, his hand had flown straight to the leg he stepped with, gripping his calf with white knuckles, under which Alfred noted a bulge edging above the rim of his boot.

Swearing quietly, he grasped his shoulder and murmured, "Sit down." But when Jack merely shot him a dazed, questioning look, Alfred did it himself, pushing him with a firmer grip than was intentional onto his ass and moving down to work on his boot ties.

It was then Jack registered what he intended to do and jerked his foot back, hissed again, and grated, "I'm fine."

" _Fine_ does not involve hissing like a snake and hitting the pavement as soon as you try to walk," Alfred countered, "so I'll ask again: What happened out there, and how in hell has anyone cleared you for active duty in a _war zone?"_

"I can authorize my own positions, _Captain,_ " he snapped back, huffing. "I'm not that low on the military hierarchy—or in the government, even if tall poppies such as your boss treat me like it."

"That doesn't answer my question," said Alfred vehemently.

"It answers one. There were two, or can you count as well as you can see without your glasses?"

Alfred's patience was thinning. Given the past twenty-four hours, there wasn't much to begin with, but he forced himself to hold what little he'd mustered until Jack—clenched from head-to-toe, ready for a fight if Alfred wanted it—caved under his tense waiting and looked away.

"Someone spliced my Achilles tendon a couple of nights ago, all right?"

"Who—?"

"It hurts like hell, sure," Jack pushed on, adamant, "but I _can_ walk, and even if I had a choice, it's my duty to be up north."

"Your duty is to adhere to your own well-being as much as to protect your people, and you can't do both if you won't take care of yourself," Alfred castigated, nearing a growl. _Why_ wouldn't he give him a name?

His attempt at playing the elder was met with a disdainful glower. "Which people? The white man or the black?—don't think I'm not aware of the issue," he added forcefully, drawing up a pained eyebrow.

Alfred sat back on his heels, considering how best to respond. The question was meant to be a trick, a challenge with no certain victory. However he answered would be taken and picked apart until anything pure became twisted and beaten into fatalistic submission. Alfred knew from Army and welfare reports that substantial numbers of African-Americans populated Australia at this very moment—not as many as Caucasian Americans but enough to create a tangible presence—and because his military wasn't desegregated, that meant separate facilities. Barracks, mess huts, restrooms had to be constructed or shared, façades of hatred or relief. Alfred, who had lived through it all: through the controversy of his independence's equality clause, through the fight over how slaves should count and be regarded within the population, through the divisions that led to a war which left him bed-ridden and frustratingly unknowing of what happened to bring it lumbering to a halt, through the attempts at integration served only to reinforce coercion and deepen the borders along the eastern seaboard, and now through the begrudging unity required of the wealthy with the lesser classes that was propagated to win the war in the name of democracy—Alfred, who had lived through it all, could not say it was a failure he felt no shame for, a story he didn't feel heavily responsible for doing nothing to alter its path. So much could have been different, in so many ways, if he had used his voice more in politics during those early decades, used his position to _force_ a resistant, white-powered America to change. But asking _what-if_ to the past wasn't wise; such a question, he was learning, never fled a representative's mouth without consequence.

And yet…the designation "black" must mean something quite different in Australia. Different, and still the same, just as Alfred would wager that the man in front of him had been molded from those to whom his land rightfully belonged, simply from the visceral reaction that leeched into his voice when he used the term.

It was with that distinction in mind that Alfred wet his lips and, without flinching, finally answered, "All of them."

Jack's laugh was acerbic. "If you say so, Captain America." He ignored Alfred's rancorous stare and snatched his clipboard and pencil, using the station rim for support as he struggled to his feet. There he clung for several moments, breathing heavy, and long enough to once again draw unwanted attention—or rather, quite welcome.

"Hiya, Gunner," said Jack with a breathless sigh, gratefully returning to his knees to rub the black-and-white kelpie's face. "Have you run off from Percy again?"

"That he did—ran straight out of the mess hut. I've been all over this base looking for him," came a new voice and boots thumping on concrete. Alfred turned to find himself below a teenaged boy in Australian uniform arriving aside them with a broad smile. "Sorry for this, Colonel. I think I need to make him a leash. He didn't start doing this 'til a few days ago."

"Must be the captain here," Jack mumbled. Alfred couldn't tell if his humor was genuine or not, but Jack wore a wry grin when he gestured to him. "This is the one I found Gunner with when he disappeared that night."

"Oh, yeah? Suppose that's not much of a surprise. You Americans just seem to have that appeal," remarked Gunner's handler with the barest hint of cynicism, well-masked in the presence of other formalities of the moment, and offered a callused hand. "Leading Aircraftman Percy Westcott at your service."

Ignoring the jab, Alfred shot to his feet and clasped the hand. "Captain Alfred Jones. Pleasure to meet you." He jerked his chin towards the dog, whose tail jauntily thumped the concrete while Jack raked fingers through his fur. "I've heard stories about this one. Seems like he's quite useful around the base."

Percy chuckled, dropping his hand. "Irreplaceable, I'd say. He—er…" Tawny-colored eyes sought out Jack in silent inquiry.

"He's safe," said the superior officer confidently, with a complicit wink. "You can tell him."

"Right." Glancing around, as if what he was about to share wasn't already public knowledge, Percy lowered his voice. "He can hear the Zeros comin'—up to twenty minutes 'fore they show up on the radar—you know, when they come in the night."

"What if it's one of our planes?" Nice as it would have been to believe without doubts, Alfred had had too much experience with hyperbole and lies to take him entirely seriously in spite of Jack's faith. A dog with acute enough hearing to assist a base in preparation for attack seemed a little far-fetched, not to mention overtly optimistic.

But Percy shrugged. "Doesn't bother him then. I've no clue how he can tell the difference, but he's never been wrong yet." He bent to give Gunner an affectionate pat on his back, and Alfred received a clear view of the air horn strapped to his belt. They weren't issued to ordinary servicemen—they weren't often issued to officers unless they were in training positions. Percy must have it for immediate response whenever Gunner acted up.

As far as he knew it, he was telling the truth.

And when he spoke next, his voice was thick. "I'd hate to have to get rid of him if he ever does—get it wrong, I mean."

"If that happens, I'll be stepping in to make sure your squadron commander doesn't have him shot," Jack put in, rising shakily to his feet. Gunner jumped up with him, and one hand strayed back down to the kelpie's head, scratching lightly behind his ears while the other clutched the station rim for balance. "He's been round and proved himself long enough now that the men would all rise in mutiny if Tich ordered him put down."

"Fair enough," said Percy with a broad smile. He reminded Alfred of an elf, large-eared and curly-haired.

"How do you know if he hears the Japanese coming, then?" he said, redirecting the conversation. At the tone of his voice, Gunner trotted over and sat on his foot as though refusing to let him go until he believed in him. Alfred cracked a grin and crouched to scratch him. Even if he didn't have the ability to differentiate the engines of enemy aircraft, Gunner would have been useful simply to put the men on the base at ease; he was somewhat surprised there weren't more dogs wandering around, though he knew from experience that to some they would only represent more mouths to feed—mouths they couldn't afford to have.

"He gets agitated. Jumps round, starts whimpering, looks for a place to hide," answered Percy, watching them with interest. "It's a bit sad, really, but it makes sense. He was shaken fair bad after February…" He fell silent then, blank-faced, and Jack's lips thinned, contrasting their dark scabs against whitened skin, both acknowledging the tragedy with their own purposes.

Alfred glanced once between them before dipping his head. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I can only imagine." The statement was sincere but half-honest; he could imagine quite well how the tragedy hurt. He had tasted the pain, shuddered and cried with the agony of those lost at Pearl Harbor. Such was a process he had experienced long before then—during the endless colonial wars, at his first battle on Breed's and Bunker Hills, and every time Washington had demanded to know what was happening on the battlefield, however distant it was—including last night. Pain and loss weren't things easily verbalized, but the visceral reactions to them lasted forever, became the scars that spliced and damaged Alfred's skin beneath his clothes.

And yet, he wouldn't pretend to know how Percy and Jack had felt that day in February, not because he didn't know them well enough to guess, but because it would be provincial and callous to compare their experiences to his own.

Percy nodded as if in agreement. "You learn to cope, especially since we have to be on our guard all the time now." The vacant look vanished from his eyes as they lifted, fixing Alfred with an appraising stare. "How long have you been here, Captain?"

Alfred hesitated, feeling Jack's eyes burn into the side of his head. "I've just arrived this morning."

"Oh." He cocked his head like the dog he handled. "Are you just passing through, then? Most go through farther south. How long are you staying?"

His hesitation lasted longer this time, unsure how to respond without revealing too much about the circumstances that brought him back to Darwin in the first place. When half a minute passed without answer, Jack sighed impatiently, prompting Alfred to blurt before he could change his mind about being truthful, "Indefinitely."

Percy lifted an eyebrow, but before he could respond, Jack added, "And both of us would appreciate it if you could give him a tour when you're able. He could use the help."

Alfred shot him a glare, to which Percy smothered a snort and Jack smirked. It faded when his gaze rose and fixed over Percy's shoulder, narrowing. "Stop that provost. Now."

Both men whirled simultaneously. Alfred spotted him first, a bulk of a man in non-military khakis banking a hasty retreat for the base's boundaries, but it was Percy who understood faster. Cursing, he ran after and seized him by the shoulder; when the provost marshal turned, openly perturbed, Alfred saw the portable radio clasped against his chest.

He and Jack watched while Percy spoke with him, but as the marshal's body language tensed and turned defensive, Jack muttered something along the lines of "pride's going to kill us all" and left Alfred and Gunner by the AA station, limping in their direction.

Alfred started to follow, but—hearing him—Jack spun and snapped, "You wait here. It's better if you do."

"But—"

"All due respect, Alfred, you're American, and if you didn't hear Percy earlier, some men have taken issue with that, so do me a favor and wait there for a minute, all right?" He sounded terribly earnest, almost imploring; it was as if the fate of this altercation depended upon Alfred's compliance.

The idea of being the difference between success and failure wasn't a reminder that Alfred wanted. He nodded, shoving aside that morning's memories, and while the tension in Jack's shoulders didn't loosen, he looked grateful.

He'd been correct when he insisted that he could walk; Jack had made a temporal art of it, stepping lightly enough to appear as if he'd merely twisted his ankle rather than severed a vital tendon. Whether he could mask the pain, however, Alfred couldn't say, for it wasn't long before the anger he'd worn earlier returned and his body language changed, morphing into a hard-edged demand for the honesty he defended. Injuries didn't keep him from casting an intimidating aura when he needed it, even from several yards away; with his broad shoulders and tall height, they merely added to it, and he hardly seemed to notice them any longer anyway. After Percy stepped aside, behavioral propriety dipped to growl close to the provost's face, and Jack's hands clenched. Thinking he might hit him, Alfred took a step to intervene, but when the provost jabbed a finger in his direction, as if to accuse him even while the evidence was in his hands, he paused, noting the bemusement on Percy's quiet face. Then Jack grabbed his shirt, and Alfred had no choice.

"What's going on here?" he obtruded once within earshot, gaze flicking between the two duelers and Percy, who shrugged and moved to keep Gunner company instead. Great help, he was, so Alfred returned to the pair, lingering on Jack, towards whom he shook his head minutely. Australian or American, brawling with the provost was poor sportsmanship, and the last thing either representative needed was to give MacArthur an excuse to court-martial them _both_.

But if Jack saw or understood it, he didn't make any effort to avoid the possibility. He knew who he was dealing with. "Just like you were so jannock last time, is that it?" he said lowly, tightening his grip on the civilian officer's uniform lapels. They were the same size, thankfully, but the provost was his senior by at least ten years—old enough to have served in the First World War, and his bearing suggested he had. Though Jack was commissioned and his rank was higher, respect was due to the veteran, and the representative wasn't offering. "Stealing from the officer's hut again. I've caught him at it twice before," he elucidated for Alfred's benefit before growling at his prey, "How many times do I have to tell you? That—is— _government—property."_ Each word was punctuated with a stern shake. Alfred made to grab the bulky radio when it started to slip from his hands, until the provost's knuckles and fingertips went white and he jerked from Jack's grasp.

"What does it matter?" he spat in a grizzled voice. "This war's sending us all to hell anyway, and it's our own damn faults."

"Then why take the position of guarding the base if all you're going to do is rob us blind?"

Alfred grabbed Jack's arm and hauled him back, hissing quickly, " _Enough._ Let me handle this."

Jack's scowl turned dark. "He's my citizen."

"And _your_ temper," Alfred shot back. "That will be the fate of this argument if you don't manage some self-control, understand?" He tried to bore that into Jack's skull with a hard look, but it didn't do much more than earn him a petulant glower. That his anger rose so quickly to the surface was troubling, and he was starting to question how his brother was able to get along with him so well, but this wasn't the time to dwell on it. If it became so out of hand that Jack was actively participating in fights, then it would be, for at that point Arthur would need to step in, and Alfred would prefer not to have to explain that—believe it or not—he hadn't provoked anything. Not intentionally, anyway.

Right now, however, Alfred needed Jack to stand down if they were going to come out of this clean. He needed to back off.

After a long moment, he did, yanking his arm from Alfred's grip and straightening his coat while his other half seized the provost, who had taken their diverted attention as an opportunity to slip away. He didn't get more than two steps before Percy cut him off and Alfred caught him; the latter nodded his thanks and released the provost as soon as he was certain he wouldn't try again.

"If what Colonel Kirkland says is true, sir, you'd best return the radio," Alfred said calmly, holding his gaze in a manner that he hoped didn't cross the divide with any perceived slight of status. "Drop the risk of being court-martialed. I doubt that's what the Australian government wants for you."

"With how our economy's growing, doubtful," Jack muttered, somewhat resentfully. His breath hitched with a low hiss when Alfred stepped on his toes.

The provost ignored him, rounding on Alfred with a ready glare. "What do you care if I'm court-martialed"—he glanced at his lapel—"Captain? You've no finances to worry about, with all your fancy pay and exy clothes, do you? The rest of us here in Australia have to _work_ for those things, you know—"

"I'm aware," said Alfred sharply, drawing a breath in an attempt to stay steady. The provost _was_ older: grey tinned the chestnut hair beneath his cap and edged skin weathered enough to suggest he'd lived outdoors for years, but there was always the contradiction of seniority with their kind. Perhaps that was the reason Jack found it so easy to be disrespectful when he didn't feel there was dignity to be had; he forgot humanity in lieu of memory. Meanwhile, Alfred had had too much practice not to make the same mistake. "But stealing a radio—to sell on the market, I presume—will not give you riches any faster than if you purchased everything on credit. If Ja—Colonel Kirkland is correct in claiming that it is government property, you would be wise to return it. Court-martial is only going to leave you more impoverished than you were before the war."

"And I suppose you would have me believe the Depression wasn't your fault, either?" the provost shot back. "I _wasn't_ in poverty before the crash."

A muscle beneath Alfred's eye twitched, the sole indication that his accusation hit close to home. "What do you mean?"

Despite how white his knuckles were around the static-ridden world in his hands, his fervor was dropping. His fight was waning, but then he may not have had much to begin with. "I…" He bowed his head, cleared his throat, and tried again. "I had a family. A home, a decent job in the mines at Broken Hill…the damned depression took it all."

"Broken Hill?" Alfred blurted, earning himself a swift elbow in the kidney. He swung around, but before he could ask or Jack could explain, the provost spoke with a rough chuckle to the latter:

"It's all right, boy. I wouldn't expect the Americans to know where Broken Hill is, or what it is." He cast tired, war-weary eyes to Alfred and continued more confidently, as if speaking directly from the heart of his knowledge, "It's a mining town down south, in New South Wales. Place where gold was rumored to live in the soil deposits, but the silver and lead's worth so much more. Lived there all my life 'til a few years ago."

"And your family? Did they stay there or are they up here—with you?" Alfred added the last part uncertainly. Marriages could all too easily fall apart when finances became the issue; sometimes money was the only reason respectable, often vain people chose to marry, and he had seen their falls from grace dozens of times over the decades in the gossip papers. Little did so many know that New York could be a haven for nightmares if one chose the wrong alley.

Australia was different: their history was different, their lives were different, their cities were different. Alfred may not know at present what those differences are, but he could reasonably guess that some of their values remained the same.

"No," answered the provost, casting his eyes down. His jaw, in need of a shave, drew tight, and he pushed out, "They're dead. Stillborn child took my wife with him. I've nothing left to lose anymore."

Behind him, Alfred heard Jack's breath hitch quietly, and the thrumming aura his national presence gave off dipped minutely into cold calm. Sparing him a glance, Alfred said, "Yes, you do." He hesitated, waiting to see if the provost wanted to hear it. "Your dignity."

Jack let out another sound—louder this time—between a gasp, a snort and a laugh. Some part of it was pained, another incredulous. Mostly, Alfred thought it was empathetic. The provost's hard stare flicked to his representative, and Alfred watched the stridency in it drop, becoming resigned and conciliatory. Without another word, he thrust the radio on Alfred and made to stomp off—until the latter lunged for his arm.

"Oh, what now—" he huffed, and froze when Alfred held out a bank note. Alex Hamilton's face stared shrewd and proud from the frame, a hint of arrogance in the lilt of his mouth that Alfred was once quite familiar with. Twenty years ago, he would've had to struggle not to let the same show on his own features. Now, after the sobering effects of the Depression, the same forced upon the man in front of him, it was barely an afterthought as the provost's eyes went wide and flicked up.

And hardened. "Keep your coffers full. I don't want your pity offerings."

"Sir—" Alfred wasn't given the chance to finish. He stormed off, shoulders spread wide and chin up. His pride was stung, his confidence too, but at least Alfred hadn't ripped at his dignity. And, as the basest pieces and livelihoods of a human being, that was what mattered.

The worn edges of the census counts scraped along his hip as he shoved the ten back in his wallet.

 _It should._

Sighing, he turned to Jack. "See the opportunities you miss when you let anger work for you?" he said, as much for weariness as anything else. It was barely noon and he was utterly exhausted.

By contrast, Jack and Percy gaped at him. The former was quicker to wipe off the shock, resuming something akin to a soldier's sangfroid and nodding sagely. His eyes weren't as dead as they had been, though they weren't as lively as Percy's, watching the provost's retreating back in disbelief. His were easy to understand—his were human. And whether or not they had been revived by truculence or empathy, Alfred hated that the war would kill Jack's again the _second_ he returned north.

All he could do was make the most of the last few minutes, so he tried for an amused grin. "Is it that surprising for an American to want to share his wealth?"

Percy nodded, but Jack hesitated.

"A bit, yes," he said finally, exchanging a knowing glance. "It's not secret round here that American servicemen are paid…better."

"And they have bonzer facilities," Percy added helpfully.

"Yeah, they do," agreed Jack, almost shamefully, and dropped his head to the confiscated radio Alfred had tossed to him when he wanted to help the thief.

 _Thief,_ such a strong term, apathetic to the hardship the provost and virtually every other Australian must have suffered these long ten years. And now Alfred—epitome of the cause of the global financial breakdown—had gone and flashed his recovery to those he needed on his side—precisely the kind of attitude that was fostering resentment in the first place. He could be a certain idiot, that was for sure, but it was hard to distinguish who he was more frustrated at in that moment: himself, or Jack's situation.

Percy cleared his throat and jerked his thumb in the general direction of the field office on the southeast corner of the base, a block of brick sitting unobtrusively beside the hangars. "I should, erm, take my leave, sir. I have a practice flight at half-fourteen."

" 'Course," said Jack, managing a smile. It wasn't a happy one, and it made Alfred realize that he valued this leading aircraftman as more than a comrade or a colleague: this boy was a friend. Alfred should have guessed that; he had only ever used his first name, never his rank. "Take care, Percy."

Percy tipped his head in thanks, and to Alfred he said, "If you still want a tour, I'll be in the mess hut—that way." He pointed in the same direction, presumably gesturing to what was behind the hangars.

Alfred grinned. "Thank you, Leading Aircraftman Westcott. I'll be there soon."

Politeness, without the formality of sternness, seemed to do the trick. Percy matched his gesture broadly and walked off with Gunner trotting at his feet. After a few yards, they ran.

When they were safely out of range, Alfred's grin slid off, and he uttered, "You want him to stay with me so that none of your men get any bright ideas about instigating fights." An eyebrow rose as calculating eyes slid over to his counterpart, finding a wry—if somewhat sad—grin on his face.

"Something like that," said Jack vaguely, bark green eyes flashing when they met Alfred's sky blue, "though I have a feeling you'd walk away from a biffo without a scratch, so really it's more to protect _my_ men than you."

"Safe bet."

Jack chuckled, but it sounded forced, and by then the flash was gone anyway. Something inside him was retreating, preparing. Wondering how numb he would have to be before he could dive in. "My offer still stands—if you want it," he murmured, and like the provost limped off without waiting for a response, but he stopped voluntarily when Alfred spoke—seemed almost relieved for an excuse to push his return out a little longer.

"What happened here?"

"During the Depression?" He shrugged. "People lost homes, families, jobs. Defaulted on loans. You should know that story."

"I mean here. Darwin. February."

A long, silent beat followed, and then, slowly, Jack limped in a turn, but it wasn't towards Alfred. It was towards the bay. Towards the world. Towards a war that he and his country didn't enter by his own free will…

Alfred knew the feeling. The land pulsed beneath his feet, a rumbling, drumming sound like distant thunder, quickly drowned by another plane's roar as it landed behind them. Yet still it beat when Jack spoke, low and wistful enough that Alfred nearly missed it beneath the altered winds.

"Things were supposed to be settling down after the attack, if that's what you want to know."

"How do you mean?" said Alfred, unconsciously echoing Jack's solemn tone, such a natural reflex between humans when they spoke of tragedy. It created a bond of sorts, pseudo-collected, quiet, diffident—as if the memory, sputtered and unleashed word-by-haltingly-hasty-word, was a private affair that only those the survivors chose to share it with were allowed to hear and respond to, if they could respond at all. Sometimes silence was better.

Recollections were little different for their representatives, if not more difficult because they had so much time to process, to build the fear and bitter anger that boiled over into conflict further down the road. Each decade, each century that passed it became harder and harder to share that pain. It became selfish, self-absorbed. It became easier to bury memories deep, hope they didn't return to lapping waters.

To his credit, Alfred had told himself that he shouldn't ask about the attack, that Jack's expression when he looked around the harbor that first night was proof that reticence was considerate, but if he was going to be stuck here for an indeterminable while, silence couldn't be the answer. He needed to know in order to help, and it was fortunate and horrible that these memories were still so raw, a flailing, fresh-caught fish. Not even a year old.

Of course, their youth also meant patience and persistence were virtues.

"I only ask so that I can help you here," he added.

He heard the rueful grin that crossed Jack's battered skin, lingering—bearing an alive, burning gaze, Alfred noted with relief—when he turned. "I'm certain I'll be receiving _plenty_ of your help when this damn war's over. You know what your country intends to do here, don't you?"

Alfred blinked, taken aback. If his countrymen weren't keen on Americans, fine, but he hadn't anticipated Jack to be upset about their motives after all his blatant hope and cresting disappointment. The animosity leveled towards him now—and, by extension, towards MacArthur and Roosevelt—was shocking and…humbling. "I—" He stopped, pressed his lips together, and tried again. "I have a few ideas, yeah."

"And you don't agree?"

Alfred sighed and pulled off his glasses to clean the lenses. He was starting to get a headache, and the perceived iniquities rolling off Jack weren't helping. "Whether I not I do, frankly, isn't going to make much of a difference when this is over, but you and I both know that's not what you need to be focusing on at the moment. What _happened_ here, Jack? Please, just answer the question."

Without his glasses, Alfred could barely see him, but he sensed the fight in him fade, too unwilling to continue when he wasn't being forced to. He was fiddling with the radio antenna with bandaged fingers when Alfred slipped his glasses back on, oddly diminished, as if the simple act of bowing his head, of telling all, made him weaker.

But his voice was strong and controlled when he explained, "People sort of…lost their minds a bit, after the first raid. Half the population left town, and it was chaos here. People were acting like it was the End Times, or something equally awful." He tapered off, shifting with a wince. He quickly returned most of his weight to his good leg.

Alfred glanced at the identity discs around his neck, tucked between the sweat-worn lapels of his shirt, and wondered whether they would say he was religious.

"Was there a lot of desertion?" he dared to ask.

Without raising his head, Jack answered, "A bit. Some—a few hundred or so—misunderstood orders and packed off. The bigger issue was stealing."

"How much?"

At that, Jack's head jerked up, a warning look in his face that dissolved quickly into wariness, for Alfred's wasn't a question of his people's loyalty to their Dominion, but of pride. Of unbridled internal conflict, bouncing back and forth the _should be_ s and _am I_ s. _Am I proud of them?_ _I should be._ But Jack wasn't, not entirely—that was clear. His disparity of _black_ or white rose in Alfred's mind, and he knew then that wherever Jack had come from, it hadn't disappeared from his psyche, perhaps because he had seen a far worse demise of indigenous culture than he. To bear so much indecision, much more the willingness to resent that a pale-skinned provost marshal wasn't going to be court-martialed for thievery…

Alfred didn't think Jack would appreciate it, but he felt pity ball in the pit of his stomach. Both of them had been colonized by a country whose cultures often didn't care for preserving the rights and customs of their indigenous peoples. Americans had taken the persecution a step further and forced them onto unknown lands. Alfred hadn't visited Indian Territory since 1846, when President Polk ordered him west to "take care of the Mexicans" and he took some time on the way to see how the relocated tribes were faring.

Violence and antagonism had hung heavily in the dry air. The Cherokee were demanding that the Black Seminoles leave their nation, and several of the Plains tribes vocalized their discontent about having to share hunting grounds with the "Eastern interlopers". Yet, when Alfred tried to help, they called him _white man_ with enough odium and fear to burn and cast him out.

They'd had enough of his peoples' tricks, and he couldn't say they weren't justified.

The rejection hurt, though. He'd once been a part of their lives, understood their ways—even feared some of them—but he was too long assimilated to be recognized as one of them anymore.

Nonetheless, if Alfred worked under the condition that both his and Jack's present cultures were bred from the same mother, he couldn't _not_ assume that something similar had forced Australia's aboriginal peoples into death or submission. Did Jack's uncertainty, then, stem from a rooted disdain for him _self?_ His past? There was an insecurity beneath his sure-footed stance that he hadn't noticed before, as if he thought Alfred would dismiss him in disgrace at any given moment. It made him wonder…if everything he supposed was true, it would explain why Jack's hackles rose so quickly and often, but even they couldn't answer everything. What about him? What about MacArthur, his incorrigibility?

There was something higher at stake here—something bigger than either of their positions in MacArthur's circle, something broader than any effect of the war. Something deeply, deeply personal.

Alfred would have to tread carefully, sure now that Jack would shut down if he crossed a line, however invisible it was to him. "Your answer doesn't affect my opinion of you or your men. That's none of my business."

Still tight-lipped, Jack scanned Alfred's face. Then, without peremptory, he listed, "Furniture, clothes, stoves, pianos…you name it, they took it." His shoulders drooped. "It's taken ages to bring this place back up to livable standards. We had to replace the electric and water systems all over town. Most of the base's services were damaged beyond repair, too—good thing that utilities are public subsidies, I suppose…"

Thinking of the deep craters he had seen in the streets, the empty, dilapidated homes, Alfred swallowed. Beyond them, the destroyed oil tanks jutted into the sky, an arcing row of flayed giant's feet guarding its sunken progeny. The idea of a tranquil bay, if it had ever existed, was well and truly shattered. One might be tempted to think that Pearl Harbor was fortunate by comparison, but that wasn't the issue.

It was the grounds on which the raids kept occurring.

Jack sniffed and shrugged halfheartedly, as if he heard Alfred's disconsolate empathy and chose instead to shake off the sadness. He tucked the radio under his arm with the clipboard and went on, "That disaster's mostly why I'm here—checking up on the defenses, you know—and to make sure that shit like this"—he thumped the device with a knowing look—"doesn't go without due discipline."

Alfred had to admire that—personal intervention. His country was too big and too populated for that anymore. "Can't say I fancy your methods of discipline."

Jack returned his smile with mordant wit. "Sure you don't. Come on, ya sticky beak. We can talk while I bring this into the office. I said I'd answer any questions you had, and I try to keep my word."

"Only because you can't lie to save your life," Alfred riposted, and subsequently responded to Jack's sharp glance with a wink. He kept close to his side as they started across the apron, ready to grab him if he faltered, but Jack was adamant, and—for all his frankness—he _did_ mask the pain well; a single pinch in his brow was the only betrayal. He answered Alfred's questions cleanly, without opinion, and carried himself with a serviceman's grace, joining him in his automatic scans for threats until one would think he was the perfect soldier, blank-faced and alert—a stark contrast from the effervescence Alfred had seen mere minutes ago. He knew it was the war, and he was accustomed to the systematic formalities between enlisted men and officers of differing ranks, but he couldn't stop thinking that like the cloaking night they didn't sit well on Jack.

So he made one last attempt. When they reached the doors to the field office, Alfred seized his arm and blurted, "Does it hurt to be here?"

He frowned. "How d'you mean?"

"Because of the attack. You can feel the losses, can't you?"

Understanding dawned, and Jack gently drew his arm from Alfred's grip, as though to soothe him rather than assuage his own pain. Maybe he was right.

"Attacks," he corrected, "And yes, I can, but Darwin's raided so often these days that I tend to push it out. There's too much else to focus on to dwell on it. Besides, I don't think we've lost as many as you did at Pearl Harbor, and we're better prepared now—"

"That doesn't make your losses any less important," said Alfred fervently, even as guilt buckled through him—the same he felt after his last disagreement with Arthur, the same that rose when he read his letter. Twenty years ago, he wouldn't have cared. Forty—sixty—years ago, he would have cared even less. He knew better than to engage that narcissism now—

But, again, there was that conflict shining beneath Jack's appreciative grin, too personal to share and too prevalent to forget. What comfort there was didn't reach his eyes, and yet his reaction was still the best, most genuine he'd given all morning. "I know, and thank you for that, but I'll be all right—eventually." He said it all as if he were trying to convince himself, gaze flicking around the hangars and the shoals beyond the base with enough tenderness to make Alfred believe he loved every plant and creature in between. "There's no point in dwelling on the past, really, even if it hurts— _especially_ if it hurts. I won't forget or pretend that I don't care about what happened, but the best I can do for my people"—on that word he faltered, but kept on—"right now is to keep moving, and that's what I'm going to do."

Alfred's gut stirred when Jack's focus returned to him. In that stare was hope, the lies he told himself, secrets. There was _fear,_ but most of all there was a tested conviction that, no matter what happened, they would be fine. They would see this through.

It was a startlingly mortal thought, the idea of _not_ seeing the war through, but one Alfred allowed indulgence. He would need the sentiments for the men here—something to remind them that they were human, not cogs in a machine, and not disposable.

He could have thanked Jack for giving that to him, but he wasn't thickheaded enough to miss the hidden message beneath his statements, so he simply nodded. He couldn't make any promises.

Jack's slipped the longer he stared at him, eyes reassuringly more brown than green flicking over his face with the finality of one who expects never to see him again. It was a rather confusing look, but an intent one, almost pleading, the words of which Alfred couldn't understand. Before he had the chance to ask, Jack's brow pinched and he disappeared inside the field office, leaving him to head for the mess hut.

Wondering, still, what exactly had happened to him to wound him so.

* * *

"Have you heard from France?"

"No."

"You're certain."

Matthieu set down his paperwork and gave Arthur his full attention, trying not to appear as annoyed or worried as he felt. That was the only way he was going to escape what was quickly turning into an interrogation without burns; this was the third time in as many days that he had asked the question. "Yes, I am certain that _no,_ I have not heard from Français. And if I had, you would be the first to know."

Arthur paused in his pacing behind the desk to turn a sharp, distrustful glower upon his charge—a man whom by most accounts had proven more transparent and upfront than the Empire himself. "You wouldn't inform me if he asked you to keep the knowledge private."

"For the sake of our national security, I would." Matthieu released a quiet breath. He _was_ telling the truth—he had not heard from Français—but he had to urge his muscles to relax as he leaned back in the wooden chair and pulled the file onto his lap. For all they knew of how he operated, the three nights that had passed since Français bled felt like an eternity, one as fraught with concern for his stability as it was with anger—the latter emerging largely from Arthur's tense and spiteful demeanor, although Matthieu had suffered his moments as well: brief, private spurts of uncharacteristic resentment that left him feeling drained and guilty; it was, after all, this damn injury messing with him again. He wished it would just _heal_ already, but impatience could only work against him, and if Matthieu wanted to be of use to anyone—Français, Arthur, Alfred—especially Alfred, on the other side of the world—while the war still raged, he would be wise to heed the time necessary for convalescence. If nothing else, he needed to heed it _as a field medic._

No amount of advice could rectify how faintly disconnected he felt, however. What distant path had begun several weeks ago had now simply left him afar the field. The injury had healed externally, but his head still felt like something from one of Arthur's potato stews, messy and hot, and more often than not he had to strain to make sense of the paragraphs in front of him. Eventually, however—inevitably—he finished and found the right path again—which was progress, he supposed; to make use of the cliché, for every step forward there were two taken back. The fact that he could read at all was something to be happy about, but for once he felt like his brother, frustrated at how slow progress was being made.

That notwithstanding, Matthieu's greatest wish right then was that Arthur wouldn't notice how stiff he was. The last thing he needed was to give him an excuse to shut him out now that he'd been brought back in, and looking even remotely secretive was enough to justify his paranoia on his worst days.

He shouldn't call it paranoia. What Arthur feared—invasion, defeat, and God-only-knew what other stories he'd cooked up in that head of his— _was_ justifiable, but it was also Français they were soon to be rowing about. And Arthur…well—

"What on earth could he be _doing_ down there?" He threw up his arms and raked a clawed hand through eternally untamable hair. "What, did he start shagging or get arrested the moment he set foot on the blasted Continent? Why haven't we heard from him?" His eyes skated frantically across the messy desk, as if the answer lay among the parliamentary proposals and omnipresent reminders of his national debts, but after a prolonged beat he gave up and moved to the window, where cold rain and low, steely clouds fogged the glass—for the afternoon un-shrouded by blackout curtains and tolerant of his scowling reflection. It was the same window Matthieu had watched and felt Français leave from, the same room where he had bled; Hitler's occupation had left an eternal legacy upon the carpet beneath their feet.

Unconsciously, Matthieu shifted his when he heard—or thought he heard—the blood of his father hum.

"One word uttered to the wrong person, and it will be Dakar all over again," Arthur muttered. Narrowed, calculative eyes sought out Matthieu in the makeshift looking-glass. "You do understand the dangers of not knowing his whereabouts, correct? As well as withholding them?"

Matthieu nodded, keeping his thoughts to himself. He had learnt the hard way that Arthur's intense distrust of Français had the tendency to blind him particularly from seeing anything remotely good in this situation; Matthieu didn't consider it his place to correct him—yet.

"Blast it," Arthur huffed, and his uncompromising stare disappeared behind warm breath. He turned away from it and strode back to the desk. "We cannot keep this to ourselves any longer. I need to inform the Prime Minister."

"And what, ruin his faith in the Africa campaign? He just got it back with Tobruk's liberation less than three hours ago." Matthieu sighed, shoving his list of supplies and victuals needed for Britain back onto the desk and sliding a hand over the phone Arthur was reaching for. "We can handle this. You know better than I do that tackling one another is what we're designed for. Besides, I don't think Français will tell anyone what he knows, and even if he did, Ludwig could handle him. All we have to do is tell him to keep a lookout."

At that, Arthur turned red at the edges. "You're suggesting we place faith in our _enemy_ to solve this mess? Don't tell me you believed a word out of his mouth last July—much less what I repeated to you after last month's visit." A muscle twitched under his eye as he spoke, and Matthieu, slow as his brain could be these days, had the sudden realization that he and Alfred had fought about Ludwig last January. His brother hadn't expanded much upon that fatal fight whenever he visited his base—Matthieu had the impression that he wanted to forget about it altogether, actually, and he knew better than to ask Arthur, but the eyes he dared to meet now were far from the death of the battlefields. They sparked indignant flames at the mere suggestion of trusting, however good the intentions of their enemy's representation may seem. Granted, Arthur hadn't been on the field in at least three months—since Matthieu came home; he'd had time to recover, but Arthur never truly left the battle. He hadn't since the war began. There was always some measure of death in his gaze to accompany that bone-deep weariness and mimicked fervor for the war effort, which meant this small slip of the mask _was_ a revelation, indeed, and Matthieu had little time before the flames died again to decide what to do with it.

"I do, actually," he said calmly, deliberately, and taking care not to let his discovery show. He never was one to spring immediately into conflict, unlike a certain few that he knew. "I don't _trust_ Ludwig, but I believe he's trying to do the right thing—"

"For whom?" Arthur obtruded.

Matthieu refrained from a sigh. "He brought me back from the front, didn't he? Isn't that proof enough?"

Arthur's jaw worked and his arms crossed against Matthieu's underscored challenge. He had to know that everything the seated said was true, but it simply wasn't in his nature to concede without trying to find a counterargument first.

To his credit, Matthieu tried to smooth it with a smile. It didn't come easily; he barely believed the words that were coming out of _his_ mouth, but he believed in Français—at times, against his better judgment—and he knew, if nothing else, that the philistine nature of the Nazis would convince him that the United Nations were the better gamble to take.

"Suppose Germany's intentions are true," said Arthur finally, without change, "what do you propose we do then?"

Matthieu arched a dubious brow. It fell just as soon into a defeated line when he registered the expression on Arthur's face, for his was the air that bore the same obdurate haughtiness he not only used with Alfred but with most of his territories prior to the Great War. The latter were practically forced into obeisance under that stare if— _when_ —they crossed whatever invisible line they were previously expected to know. It was part of his omnipotent shields, Matthieu now understood, for when he felt vulnerable or had no answers or was simply too tired to care, but not too long ago it had the ability to wear on his patience in a way Français's never could.

However, Arthur was still waiting on the solution he expected Matthieu to give. Fortunately, he had one:

"Nothing."

That shocked some of the imperium out of Arthur's gaze. "Pardon?"

Matthieu shrugged. "We do nothing. Français can handle it."

Arthur's mouth fell slightly open. Then he braced his hands on the desk and practically shoved out, "Do you have any idea what you're suggest—?"

"Yes, I do," Matthieu interjected, unfazed.

"You _are_ aware of how enormous his gab is, correct? I find it difficult to believe that should have been wiped from your memory by a mere bullet, particularly in the knowledge that what you're proposing is to give _France_ free rein in enemy territory. How is that remotely beneficial to our cause?"

"Because to him it's not enemy territory," Matthieu responded, with ardor. "It's home soil."

Curiosity took charge to reign in Arthur's features, dimming his transparent concern for Matthieu's sanity, although, for the first time in a while, his head was clear—clear enough that chuckling didn't hurt. "You didn't see him much after the Napoleonic Wars, did you? When his people were trying to figure out whether they wanted to be a republic or remain a monarchy, it should have driven him crazy, but he managed to control it because his grasp on their fickleness is far better than you give him credit for. They're obsessed with philosophical arguments; he has to be.

"You may think you have your grip on the onslaught of free speech under your belt, Arthur, but Français has had that mastered for decades—if not longer. I saw the gauze on your arm in the White House last June"—at that, some of the rising red drained from Arthur's face; Matthieu had prompted another secret forth, then—"but you saw the way Français bled four days ago. That wouldn't have happened if he hadn't been controlling the divide otherwise—"

"Would it not follow, then, that France is _more_ vulnerable to occupation of his mental capacities now than he was prior to the invasion?" Arthur snapped, propping his hands on his hips, as though daring Matthieu to deny it.

His pride. It was going to be the demise of his empire one of these days.

"Maybe," Matthieu conceded, leaning back in the chair and rubbing his neck. "I don't know. All I know is that in…" He bit back a groan; this was dangerous territory, but it was the only personal example he could think of. "During Alfred's revolution—"

"Don't you so much as _think_ about it, Matthew. I've heard enough—"

"Hear me out—please," he added earnestly, holding up a placating hand against Arthur's accusing finger. Slowly, amid the tense crackling of the fireplace and oblivious patter of rain, it retracted, and Arthur settled for crossing his arms, pushing out a stubborn breath above hard-pressed lips.

"Get on with it," he said tersely, when Matthieu simply sat and watched in half-fearful silence.

He swallowed. Praying his thanks to God that his reaction hadn't been worse, Matthieu dropped his hand and continued calmly, "You know that I came over with Français to fight alongside Al during his rebellion. That was a personal choice; most Canadians were not enthusiastic about taking up arms, and my landscape acted mostly as a base of operations for the Howes and subsequent com—"

"I'm well aware of all this."

"Right. Well, I could have easily joined them in sitting out. I was tempted sometimes when no one really knew what to do, but I didn't, because Français taught me how to shut those thoughts out if they weren't…for lack of a better explanation, me. Al was— _is_ —my brother, and, no offense, I wasn't about to let him fight you alone when I could offer him help."

"Oh, I'm certain that you harbored your own grievances," Arthur put in, with a bitter twist to his lips. It almost looked as if he was snarling, an air of the bear his name's origin stemmed from—or the lion England took so much pride in.

Matthieu allowed him that, but he didn't see the point of going into what had already been debated. "My point is, alone it would have taken me years to control how much popular opinion I let in. With Français tutoring me, I was able to do it with barely a thought in less than a decade. He's much stronger than you give him credit for." Finished, he sank barely an inch into the seat, craving what little support a wooden-backed chair had to offer and meeting Arthur eye-for-eye. "Believe what you want, but I think he'll manage not to fall to the regime. And if it becomes necessary, we'll let Ludwig know, but the Prime Minister—and definitely de Gaulle—do not need to know. At least, not right now. Operation Torch is too important to risk distracting Churchill."

Arthur—who had let him expostulate in near-total silence—didn't burst into hidebound offenses to justify his case against Français when Matthieu finished. He didn't say a word, and the longer that Matthieu held his gaze, the more he began to see that none were coming. Some part of him had known, as with Ludwig, that what Matthieu said was honest and true before the latter even put them to air; he simply hadn't wanted to see it.

Admiration rose as well—whether for Français or for Matthieu springing to his defense, he couldn't say. He caught only a glimpse before Arthur turned, not so much striding as wandering back to the window. The sharp angles of his shoulder blades were more pronounced than ever through his rough linen shirt; his clothes were so starved that they were eating him, destroying the evidence that testified to Britain's rapidly depleting reserves of men, of native-grown food, of industrial means. The man who had once towered over the world had shrunk to the size of a single, lonely island, it seemed, and Matthieu couldn't say he was shocked to see him so withered. It had been coming for some time—since before Australia's ascension to a federal Commonwealth in 1901, when both Germany and America were developing so rapidly that Britain could hardly keep up.

But Arthur was still a man, a deeply wounded one, which was perhaps why Matthieu remained unsurprised when he uttered, "When you state that France tutored you in monitoring the tide of opinions, do you believe that I did not?"

Matthieu hesitated, listening to the silence until Arthur's shoulders sloped back, tensing, and then he said hastily, "No, I don't believe you taught me."

His shoulders fell. Matthieu couldn't see Arthur's face in the reflection, but he had no doubt that his answer meant something. What it was, quite frankly, he didn't know him well enough to so much as guess.

It wasn't long, however, before Arthur stiffened yet again and his arms fell to his sides. "How well are you prepared to tell Germany about France?"

Matthieu frowned. "If it becomes necessary, like I said."

"Then decide whether it is—and quickly. We have a visitor." Spinning on his heel, Arthur strode for the door, mask returned long before he reached for the handle and disappeared through it, heading for the stairs.

Matthieu's frown deepened. He moved to the window, curious and somewhat worried about what caught his attention, and gasped.

Below, moving fast through the rain and slick gravel and keeping his head low, as if the water itself were tears hell-bent on forcing him to feel their pain, a figure clad in cloying shadows and an ashen halo of hair stomped and splashed straight for the house.

Matthieu ran after Arthur, pausing only at the top of the stairs when the exertion jostled his senses enough to spew black spots. Cursing, he collapsed against the railing and felt along his temple, the ridges of his finger scraping along those of the scar as if the action alone could heal him completely.

If only. He knew it wouldn't do anything, but it was better than than doing nothing.

* * *

 **Footnotes:**

Section One: Australia & America  
1\. Both P-39 and **P-40** fighters were used in the defense of Port Moresby, but the cost to them was high during the campaign, in part because these planes couldn't reach the altitudes that Japanese fighters attacked from to intercept them and forewarning radar detection was unreliable until September of 1942, when an American unit entered the fray with better equipment. Gradually, their numbers and skill improved, but long-range bombers such as B-17s and B-25s were still unsafe to stay there.

2\. " **Mister High Mucketie":** "high muck-a-muck" or "high muckety-muck" is actually a North American slang term that originates from the Chinook people (who lived around Portland, Oregon and the border of Washington State), "muckamuck" meaning "plenty of food". Adding "high" alludes to a place of importance—in this case, the narcissistic important applied to authority. Jack might know it because of the extensive American presence in Australia at this time and mistake it with an "-ie" ending because, well, that _is_ Australian.

3\. " **The white or the black":** At this time, Australia was under what was known as the "White Australia" policy, which allowed for (even encouraged) discrimination against non-white minorities—Asians, Aboriginals, Torres Strait Islanders and the like. Racial violence wasn't much tolerated, but those of southeast Asian descent were particularly regarded with suspicion, and there was a persistent fear of invasion—initially of the Chinese into the gold rush of the last half of the nineteenth century. By the time of Federation in 1901, however, Japan had displaced China and Europe as the main antagonist, a fear unabated by their mimicking European technique and the Anglo-Japanese Treaty signed a year later.

It could be argued that the Aboriginals—termed "blacks" by the white—suffered the most, however; as a race they were dying out, and everything about how they lived to _where_ they lived was controlled by protection boards operating under a policy of biological assimilation—essentially, breeding the autocthonous blood from their veins. They were categorized by this, their capabilities and "acceptability" determined by their genetics, or degree of "whiteness".

To summarize, White Australia was a nationwide commitment to racial purity, idealized as a stimulator for renewed growth after a decade of depression and faltering progress in the 1890s. The country was still under this policy when the Second World War erupted; it wouldn't be abolished until 1966.

4\. " **Substantial numbers of African-Americans":** One in 10 of American personnel based in Australia were African-American during the war, but the vast majority of African-Americans in the armed forces were draftees who performed the menial tasks such as maintaining aircraft, loading bombs, etc. In 1940, however, Congress forced Hap Arnold to accept and admit them into flight training, although it remained on a segregated basis, the War Department policy at the time. Desegregation of the American militaries wouldn't occur until 1948—much, it's worth noting, to the reluctance of Arnold.

5\. " **the controversy of his independence's equality clause":** In an earlier draft of the Declaration of Independence prepared by Thomas Jefferson, there was a passage in which he blamed George III for the slave trade; this sparked backlash in the Continental Congress and in the revision period was removed altogether. Nonetheless, the clause "all men are created equal" remains a key factor in civil rights issues today.

6\. " **the fight over how slaves should count…within the population":** The infamous "Three-Fifths Compromise"—essentially, that every five people in slavery accounted for three free persons—was a concession by the Northern states to the uncompromising slaveholder states in the South (namely Virginia, Georgia and South Carolina, whose tobacco and cotton industries depended upon manual labor) in 1790. The issue of slavery, and how and whether to emancipate those in bondage, as well as Congress's role and authority regarding it, sparked passionate debate between the delegations but resulted only in postponing the discussion via a resolution, confirmed in the Constitution, that legislation limiting or ending the slave trade was prohibited until 1808.

7\. " **the attempts at integration…":** The best example I can give of this is the Freedman's Bureau, established 1865 to provide education and job training for freed slaves after the Civil War; the services offered weren't backed up with enough real help to aid the millions of people who needed it, and it collapsed in 1872, when the backlash to Reconstruction eventually cost the board its funding. Five years later, Reconstruction itself collapsed; the North gave up and withdrew its troops from the South, allowing southern legislatures to enact the discriminatory and segregationist Jim Crow Laws that endured until 1964.

 **8\. Indian Territory** was the name given to the unorganized land west of the Mississippi River (between the 95th and 101st meridians) where most eastern Native American tribes were relocated following the 1824 proposal and subsequent passage in 1830 of the Indian Removal Act. In reality, removal had begun with the Great Lakes tribes in the 1780s, but the reasons for it at this time included:

a. Protection of United States' civilization  
b. Supply of land for white settlers  
c. The acquirement of national security and buffer lands against foreign invasion  
d. Removal would appease Georgia's legislature, who strongly opposed the Cherokee presence in their society (despite the fact that some tried earnestly to fit in socially, politically, and educationally)  
e. The acquirement of new support and votes for President Andrew Jackson in the 1832 election.

Various treaties and cessions were negotiated (or bribed, or tricked into) with various nations across the eastern seaboard, and thousands were forced out west, primarily into present-day Kansas and Oklahoma. The Plains tribes were not consulted prior to this relocation, and while each group reacted differently, the primary issue that surfaced between them was access to hunting grounds and the availability of food.

By 1942, Indian Territory had been dissolved into what is now the state of Oklahoma; and for the Native Americans, each head of a family was allotted 80 acres of land that is held in trust to the US government (exempting the Seneca in New York, who independently own their lands), effectively wiping out their chieftain rule and ingratiating them into white society, which lives on in the small, crowded spots on the map that are known as reservations today.

9\. " **Take care of the Mexicans"** refers to the Mexican-American War, which began a year after the annexation of Texas in 1845 and lasted through 1848. Slavery was made illegal in Mexico in 1842, and sometimes slaves of Native American tribes would attempt to escape there.

 ** _Addendum to notes 5, 6, 7, & 8: These issues are far more complicated, full of important anecdotes and perspectives, than I am frankly aware of currently. Some were simply too in-depth for my purposes, but I highly encourage you to read more about these conflicts. They are all, in their own way, as pertinent to our times as they were in 1942._**

10\. " **You Americans just seem to have that appeal":** Despite the government's hopes for working with the United States, Westcott's cynicism here reflects the general Australian jealousy of American servicemen. Over the course of the war, more than 1 million American servicemen passed through Australia, which, to Australians, was a foreign invasion of unprecedented standards known by these generations, owed primarily to their determined isolationism in the 1920s. American servicemen were known to have higher pay, better conditions, greater access to luxury goods, and—much to their resentment and dismay—greater appeal to Australian women. Masculinity was in high value within Australia at this time, and had been for decades, which was why women who married Americans were often vilified, viewed as defectors and fifth columnists.

 **11\. Gunner:** Born in August 1941, Gunner was found with a broken front leg under the rubble of a mess hut by Percy Westcott and one other after the 19 February 1942 raid on Darwin. He was taken to a field hospital and subsequently entered into the RAAF when the doctor said he couldn't fix him without a name and serial number—hence, Gunner, #0000. Gunner became attached to Percy and started showing his skill for alerting the base one week after he was taken in. He never once mistook an Allied plane for a Japanese, and he was eventually deemed reliable enough that the No. 2 Squadron commander allowed Percy to carry a portable air raid siren for whenever he started acting up. In the interim, Gunner slept under his bunk, showered with the men and went up in the planes with them during practice take-off and landings.

Unfortunately, his presence generated a problem with other stray dogs that wound up wandering the base. They became so common after Gunner's official adoption that the No. 2 Squadron commanding officer, Wing Commander A.B. "Tich" McFarlane, ordered them all—except Gunner—shot.

12\. " **Most go through farther south":** After 19 February, Allied naval forces all but abandoned Darwin as a base, preferring to go through smaller ports in Brisbane and Fremantle, among others.

 **13\. Provost Marshal:** The head of military police in a camp or on active service, especially in civilian law enforcement during a period of martial law. These were most often accused of looting and stealing in the aftermath of 19 February, when the Australian Army had difficulty controlling the troops in the chaos. ( _See note 17 for further information.)_

 **14\. The Veteran from Broken Hill:** Since the 1890s, Australia has had a history of capitalist conflict with unions of all kinds. Following the First World War, when scarce employment, preference for ex-servicemen over union or casual laborers, and no public assistance in the event of unemployment sparked further industrial disputes and strikes, war veterans were often the ones who volunteered to take the strikers' place—especially in the mines and on the docks. Because this provost marshal is old enough to have served in the First World War, I imagine he would have been one of the strikebreakers, and kept his job after the antagonism died down.

15\. " **With how our economy's growing, doubtful":** It took Australia quite some time to emerge from the Depression, but—as others did—their economy grew rapidly during World War II. Although the war was financed largely through taxation (minimizing consumption in order to maximize war production), and the government assumed controls over industry and employment that most Americans would think of as privatized, such as fixing wages, prices and rents—as well as rationing and direction of labor—it gave the economy a much-needed boost, thus allowing Australia to emerge from the Second World War more confident (if largely unheard) in their ability as an independent nation.

 **16\. Australian identity discs** in the RAAF and Army required soldiers to state their religion with a letter, as well as their serial number, first initials and surname.

17\. " **People were acting like it was the End Times":** Everything Jack tells Alfred towards the end of this scene is true. Services were badly damaged or completely obliterated as a result of the surprise attack, and about half of Darwin's population—5800 or so before the raid—left town and never returned, caught in panic and fear of imminent invasion that was reflected on the bases, where troops and officers stole everything from appliances to children's toys and incited the creation of the Lowe Commission to investigate the issue. Despite Australia's fear, however, from Japan's perspective the purpose of the mission was to damage Australian morale and to hinder Darwin's ability as an operative base prior to their invasions of Timor, which began the day after, and Port Moresby. Unfortunately for Japan, Darwin built a credible and coordinated air defense when order was restored, packing the base with fighters, radar, searchlights, and the lucky dog, Gunner.

18\. " **I don't think we've lost as many as you did at Pearl Harbor, and we're better prepared now—":** For decades afterward, the loss of life at Darwin on 19 February has been heavily disputed. Some placed it in the thousands, others estimated it to be in the 250-300 range. The latter is closer to what was determined by the Lowe Commission ("between 300-400"), and has been largely accepted based upon the reports of the wounded (about 400). Technological damage and the number of bombs dropped was far greater at Darwin than at Pearl Harbor, however, as is described above, and the damage to the oil tanks led to the construction of underground oil tunnels in 1943 ("Bombing of Darwin").

Section Two: England & Canada  
1\. " **One word uttered to the wrong person":** French views on Nazi occupation were rather a bit like the sides of the American Revolution, split thrice: One third was utterly, disgustedly against the Nazis and resisted their rule, often by hiding Allied airmen and acting as couriers; another was on the fence and remained "ambiguously silent"; and the last acted as collaborators working against the Resistance and informing on their comrades or taking positions as _gendarmes_ (armed police officers) and _malice_ (pro-Nazi paramilitary police). The latter group were the people that French helpers needed to fear most; collaboration and informing on one's neighbors was a _very_ common pastime in France by that point, and the bitter legacy of it lives on today in the form of a severe _lack_ of tips to the police.

 **2\. Operation Torch:** At this point, Rommel's Afrika Korps were rapidly retreating west from Bernard Montgomery and the Eighth Army; German Field Marshal Albert Kesselring's Fifth Army awaited them and the Anglo-American First Army in Tunisia; and Tobruk, formerly the June loss that devastated Churchill and frightened British government, was liberated on 13 November.

3\. " **most Canadians were not enthusiastic":** In 1775, two American armies led by Richard Montgomery and Benedict Arnold marched into Quebec in an effort to not only rouse their support for the American cause but to liberate them from what they perceived as the "viper of popery" (aka Catholicism) and British tyranny. But the 1774 Quebec Act had offered French-Canadians religious tolerance and left them quite content where it angered the Americans; both prior to and following the invasion they weren't swayed by American attempts to rouse interest in the rebellion. In spite of pleas from Roman Catholic leaders for action, they didn't rise in defense when Montreal was captured. As far as the locals were concerned, as long as the Americans paid for their provisions with hard currency and respected them, they were welcome.

By the time both generals were replaced and British reinforcements drove out the Americans in the following winter-spring, this was worn out, and Canadians along the St. Lawrence and the eastern coast essentially adopted a non-partisan stance for the Revolution—that is, until the British stimulated the economies by making places such as Quebec and Halifax their naval hubs during the war. They still chose not to fight for either side, however, instead profiting from the sidelines _._

 **4\. To be a Republic, or not to be:** Following the conclusion of the Napoleonic Wars in 1815, France spent the next half a century oscillating between imperial and republican regimes. The first uprising was influenced by (and in turn became an influence upon) other flares of republicanism throughout Europe in 1848, after King Louis-Philippe refused aide to the labor classes, who were caught in the economic crisis brought upon by unequal consumption and production ratios, and the Second Republic was created. This was subsequently overthrown internally by President Louis Napoleon, who was declared Emperor Napoleon III in 1852. His reign lasted until the French loss of the Franco-Prussian War in 1871, after which he escaped to England, where he remained for the rest of his life, and the ensuing Third Republic endured until 11 July 1940, when Premier Philippe Pétain staged an (illegal) vote in Congress to draft a new constitution.

 _Chapter Information Sources:  
_ _1\. Alexander Hamilton,_ by Ron Chernow  
 _2\. ALHC  
_ 3\. "Bombing of Darwin" – Wikipedia  
4\. "The bombing of Darwin – Fact sheet 195" – National Archives of Australia  
5\. "Bombing of Darwin: 70 years on" – Australian Broadcasting Corporation  
 _6\. CHA  
_ 7\. Dictionary. com  
8\. "A Dream Deferred" – David S. Reynolds, _Wall Street Journal_ (Book review for _Reconstruction: A Concise History_ , by Allen C. Guelzo)  
 _9\. Founding Brothers,_ by Joseph J. Ellis  
10\. "Gunner (dog)" – Wikipedia  
 _11\. The Historical Atlas of Native Americans_ , by Dr. Ian Barnes  
 _12\. History of the World,_ ed. John Whitney Hall & John Grayson Kirk  
13\. "New Guinea campaign" – Wikipedia  
14\. "Philippe Pétain" – Wikipedia  
15\. "Thumbs Up", _I'd Die for You and Other Lost Stories_ , by F. Scott Fitzgerald, ed. Anne Margaret Daniel  
 _16\. WWII  
_ 17\. "Understanding Australian Identity Discs Part 3: Second World War, Army" – Dianne Rutherford, Australian War Memorial  
18\. "Understanding Australian Identity discs part 4: Second World War, Royal Australian Air Force" – Dianne Rutherford, Australian War Memorial  
 _19\. USAAF Handbook: 1939-1945_ , by Martin W. Bowman  
 _20\. 1000 Years of Annoying the French,_ by Stephen Clarke

 _Quote Source: Washington's Spies,_ by Alexander Rose (67-8)

 **A Note from the Author**

At this point I am going to do some "clean up" of the story - mostly revisions in language/word choice, character detail, and some minor fixes in historical accuracy. The primary plot and subplots of the story will **not** be changed, but I can tell you now there is one scene in the first chapter that desperately needs to be fixed, and it's been bugging the crap out of me.

I will wait to replace the existing chapters with revised ones until I'm finished so that you may be certain that _I_ am completely sure this is how I want _We Meet Again_ to go.

Speaking of - the title may change as well. I'm not sure about that one yet, but don't freak out if you can't find it under this name. The description will be the same.

Call me a control freak (because it's true); I just want to make this story the best that it can be, and to do it right. There's no such thing as perfect, but I hope that by revising I can remind myself of important details I may be jumping over and make this story better for you all. If you have any questions or comments about this, please feel free to contact me!

In the meantime, I have a clear winner for the poll, so I'll get working on that, too. Thank you to everyone who voted.

With gratitude,  
BlvdofWritingDreams23


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